

ITERS 


»¥» ^ 


i n ij is one oi the 
three books declared 
byTHEODORE RpDSEVELT 
to be the favorite sto¬ 
ries of his boyhood, 
“because.” he said,“they 
were first-class, good, 
healthy stories, inter¬ 
esting* in the first place, 


and in the next place 
teaching manliness, 
decency, and good 
conduct.” 


jT. S,K/^SH£lV 


ABBY MORTON DIAZ 





















































































I 










THE 

WILLIAM HENRY 
LETTERS 














THE 

WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


BY 

Am, ABBY MORTON DIAZ 

" / 

INTRODUCTION BY 

ANNE CARROLL MOORE 

NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY 

ILLUSTRATED 



• v O 

BOSTON 

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. 

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1 . 0 . Csrrf * 


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Copyright, 1930, 

By LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS. 


PRINTED IN U.S.A. 


©CIA 









INTRODUCTION 


William Henry is the forerunner of the American 
boy in literature. This red-headed, freckle-faced, 
warm-hearted, good sport of a ten-year-old boy 
stepped into Our Young Folks in the late sixties, a 
year or two before Aldrich’s Story of A Bad Boy 
appeared in the same magazine and prepared the 
way for Jack Hazard, Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry 
Finn, Penrod, the whole glorious company of real 
boys who are the delight of boy readers and the most 
satisfactory of all sources of information concern- 
ing boys. 

Before William Henry, there had been Rollo and 
Jonas, to be sure, but they were different. They 
didn’t talk or act like boys. Only once was Rollo 
known to laugh long and loud. He and Jonas were 
always serious. They were bent on acquiring use¬ 
ful information. They liked nothing better than 
a good discussion. 

William Henry was not a brilliant scholar, but 


6 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


he had the gift of laughter and knew how to use it 
to his advantage when the boys at school plagued 
him. He knew how to make friends and keep them. 
He liked the things most boys like. He counted on 
having a good time wherever he went. Proof of 
it lies in Mrs. Diaz’s masterly description of the 
contents of the hair-covered trunk in his snug little 
room at Summer Sweeting Place. It is significant 
that there was a dime novel among his treasures. 

William Henry liked his family, his grandmother 
— to whom most of his letters from school were 
written — best of all, and no wonder, for Grand¬ 
mother’s confidence in her Billy was as implicit as 
her affection for him. Billy’s wise silent father had 
his own place and so had Georgiana, his appealing 
little sister, and jolly Uncle Jacob, hospitable Aunt 
Phebe, and their three girls, — Lucy Maria, Matilda 
and Hannah Jane, — and little Tommy, forever in 
mischief. Into this lively, fun-making household 
William Henry brought Dorry Baker home from 
school for a visit, and Dorry had the time of his 
life, as his letters testify. Dorry Baker was one 
of the big boys at Crooked Pond School, who be- 



INTRODUCTION 


7 


gan by teasing William Henry and ended by becom¬ 
ing his best friend. 

There were all kinds of boys at Crooked Pond 
School. Mr. Augustus, a tall boy in spectacles “ who 
knows a lot,” Old Wonder Boy, the boaster from 
New Jersey who “ tells whoppers,” Bubby Short, 
who saved Billy from being whipped in place of Tom 
Cush, the bad boy who runs away to sea and comes 
back a man. 

Nor were William Henry’s school friendships 
limited to boys. There are the Two Betsys who 
keep a shop and give him the famous hair-cut, old 
Capper Skyblue with his donkey cart, even the 
Schoolmaster himself calls him “ Flying Billy,” and 
likes him “ because he runs fast and won’t lie ”. 

One feels that Crooked Pond School was a so¬ 
cialized school in the true sense of that phrase. 
One feels also that Summer Sweeting Place was a 
home where ideas and companionship were placed 
above household routine and a derivative code of 
conduct. There was no nagging in that family. 
There was plenty of time for picnics and festivals, 
for dancing and singing and lively games, and an all- 


8 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


pervading flavor of good talk. There is more na¬ 
tive wit and idiomatic colorful American language 
in this book than is to be found in any other book 
of the period. 

The creator of William Henry and his home and 
school environment was vividly aware of the world 
she was living in. Education, to her, meant an 
essential part of everyday life, and it concerned 
everybody, old and young. In sending Billy away 
to boarding-school to keep him from being spoiled 
by his grandmother, the interests of the whole fam¬ 
ily were enriched and enlivened by sharing his ad¬ 
ventures and his friendships. 

Mrs. Diaz was a born teacher as well as a dramatic 
story-teller, an ardent progressive in the field of 
education for parenthood as well as for childhood. 
That she was years ahead of her time, one quickly 
realizes in turning from her crisp, amusing char¬ 
acterization of people, young and old, to other 
writing of her day. 

She is at her best in her dramatizations, and of 
these William Henry and Polly Cologne possess 
qualities of perennial charm. If literature is a 


INTRODUCTION 


9 


transcript of life, William Henry and Polly Cologne 
have an enduring place, for they are part and parcel 
of the New England life Mrs. Diaz knew and lived. 
“ My grandmother was just like that — she talked 
and did everything for us just as she describes in the 
William Henry Letters,” says her grandson, 
Ralph Diaz, to whom I am indebted for an inter¬ 
esting life sketch published while Mrs. Diaz was 
still living. Abby Morton Diaz was born in Ply¬ 
mouth, Massachusetts, a descendant of one of the 
original “ Pilgrims ”. Her father, a ship-builder, 
became deeply interested in free education, and 
travelled about the country with Horace Mann, 
speaking with much native eloquence. 

Abby Morton grew up in an atmosphere of re¬ 
form. After slavery was abolished, she was drawn 
into equal suffrage. But reform was always tem¬ 
pered by singing and dancing, by her lively wit, 
and the great variety of her interests and accom¬ 
plishments. She knew more old ballads than 
anybody else in town and could sing them steadily 
for a whole evening. She kept a singing-school in 
her father’s kitchen. She held her first dancing 



10 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


classes in the empty wood-room of the schoolhouse 
of the village where she was teaching, and sang 
the directions. She could and did “ pick up every¬ 
thing that came along ” which could be turned to 
practical account, for she married young and was 
left with several small children to provide for. 

When first urged to write for publication, she 
scoffed at the idea and said that there was not 
enough in her, to use her own expression. But 
when at last she did write a story, she aimed high 
and sent it to the Atlantic Monthly , having no idea 
it would be accepted, but preferring, as she ex¬ 
pressed it, to work her way down from the best 
market. 

Her writings were much in demand. Their wit 
and wisdom and homely good sense were watched 
for in the magazines, and speedily collected in book 
form. It is interesting to learn how The William 
Henry Letters originated. Mrs. Diaz heard of a 
boy who sent home from boarding-school a letter 
saying they used pink soap, and with this slight 
foundation she wrote for Our Young Folks a few 
imaginary letters which she supposed would all ap- 


INTRODUCTION 


11 


pear in one issue. But the editor, recognizing their 
serial value, strung them out through several num¬ 
bers. When the readers, boys and girls and even 
well-known men and women, called for more, Mrs. 
Diaz was persuaded to “ carry on ” with William 
Henry, and in another year or so to edit and pub¬ 
lish the Letters in book form with an introduction 
in which she assumes the character of one Silas Y. 
Fry who had served in the Army of the Potomac, 
who, while collecting barrels of old clothing for 
the Freedmen, visits William Henry’s family at 
Summer Sweeting Place and in due time meets Wil¬ 
liam Henry himself. This preface has been re¬ 
tained, together with most of the editorial comments 
which will have reminiscent value for many readers. 

Theodore Roosevelt read and reread these Let¬ 
ters in the bound volumes of Our Young Folks , 
which he so affectionately regarded, boy and man, 
as “ the very best magazine in the world The 
picture-letters among Theodore RoosevelTs Let¬ 
ters to His Children are, it seems to me, a reflection 
of his delight in William Henry’s drawings. a I 
really believe,” says Roosevelt in his Autobiogra- 


12 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

phy, “ I enjoy going over Our Young Folks now 
as much as ever. Cast Away in the Cold, Good 
Old Times, or Grandfather’s Struggle for a Home¬ 
stead, and The William Henry Letters were first 
class, good healthy stories, interesting in the 
first place, and in the next place teaching manliness, 
decency, and good conduct. My beloved Our 
Young Folks taught me much more than any of my 
text books.” 

It is, then, as a vivid picture of American home 
and school life at the end of the Civil War as well 
as a sturdy pioneer of American boyhood that I 
present William Henry to the boys and girls, the 
parents and teachers, the editors and authors of 
children’s books of the 1930’s, with a reminder of 
the well-timed comment of a boy critic of the 1870’s, 
who said, “ What Mrs. Diaz writes is always funny 
and interesting.” These two qualities remain first 
requisites in successful writing for children. 

Anne Carroll Moore 

New York 

Washington’s Birthday 

1930 


PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION 


BY A SUPPOSED EDITOR 

My dear Young Friends: 

Much to my surprise, I was asked one day if I 
would be willing to edit the William Henry Letters 
for publication in a volume. 

At first it seemed impossible for me to do anything 
of the kind; “ for,” said I, “ how can any one edit 
who is not an editor? Besides, I am not enough 
used to writing.” It was then explained to me that 
my duties would simply be to collect and arrange 
the Letters, and furnish any little items concerning 
William Henry and his home which might interest 
the reader. It was also hinted, in the mildest man¬ 
ner possible, that I was not chosen for this office on 
account of my talents, or my learning, or my skill 
in writing; but wholly because of my intimate ac¬ 
quaintance with the two families at Summer Sweet¬ 
ing Place, — for I have at times lived close by them 

13 


14 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


for weeks together, and have taken tea quite often 
both at Grandmother’s and at Aunt Phebe’s. 

My acquaintance with the families commenced 
just about the time of William Henry’s going to 
school, and in rather a curious way. 

I was then (and am now) much interested in the 
Freedmen. While serving in the Army of the Poto¬ 
mac, I had seen a good deal of them, and was con¬ 
nected with a hospital in Washington at the time 
when they were pouring into that city, hungry and 
sick, and half naked. I belonged to several Freed- 
men’s Societies, and had just then pledged myself 
to beg a barrelful of old clothing to send South. 

But this, I found, was for an unmarried man, 
having few acquaintances in the town, a very rash 
promise. I had no idea that one barrel could hold 
so much. The pile of articles collected seemed to 
me immense. I wondered what I should do with 
them all. But when packed away, there was room 
left for certainly a third as many more; and I had 
searched thoroughly the few garrets in which the 

right of search was allowed me. Even in those, 

/ 

I could only glean after other barrel-fillers. A great 


PREFACE 


15 


many garrets yielded up their treasures during the 
war; for “ Old do’ ! old do’ ! ” was the cry then 
all over the North. 

Now, as I was sitting one afternoon by my barrel, 
wishing it were full, it happened that I looked down 
into the street, and saw there my unknown friend , 
waiting patiently in his empty cart. This unknown 
friend was a tall, high-shouldered man, who drove 
in, occasionally, with vegetables. There were 
others who came in with vegetables also, and of- 
tener than he; but this one I had particularly no¬ 
ticed, partly because of his bright, good-humored 
face, and partly because his horse had always a 
flower, or a sprig of something green, stuck in the 
harness. 

At first I had only glanced at him now and then 
in the crowd. Then I found myself watching for 
his blue cart, and next I began to wonder where he 
came from, and what kind of people his folks were. 
He joked with the grocery-men, threw apples at the 
little ragged street children, and coaxed along his 
old horse in a sort of friendly way that was quite 
amusing. And though I had never spoken a word 


16 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


to him, nor he to me, I called him my unknown 
friend, for a sight of him always did me good. 

It was a bony old gray horse that he drove, with 
a long neck poking away ahead; and the man was a 
farmer-like man, and wore farmer-like clothes; but 
he had a pleasant, twinkling eye, and the horse, as 
I said before, was seldom without a flower or bit 
of green stuck behind his ear or somewhere else 
about the harness. 

And often, when the town was hot and dusty, 
and business people were mean, I would say to my¬ 
self, as my friend drove past on his way home, 
“ How I should like to ride out with him, no matter 
where, if ’tis only where they have flowers and green 
things growing in the garden! ” 

On this particular afternoon, as I have said, I 
observed my friend sitting quietly in his cart, 
“ bound out,” as the fishermen say, — sitting be¬ 
calmed, waiting for something ahead to get started. 

It happened that I was just then feeling very 
sensibly the heat and confinement of the town, and 
was more than usually weary of business ways and 
business people; actually pining for the balmy air 



PREFACE 


17 


of pine woods and the breath of flowery fields. 
And perhaps, thought I, my friend may live among 
warm-hearted country folk, who will be delighted 
to give to my poor contrabands, and whose garrets 
no barrelman has yet explored! 

So, giving a second look, and seeing that he still 
sat there, patiently awaiting his turn, I ran down, 
without stopping to think more about it, and asked 
if I might ride out with him. 

“ Oh, yes. Jump in! jump in! ” said he, in the 
pleasantest manner possible; then he offered me his 
cushion, and began to double up an empty bag for 
himself. 

“ No, no. Give me the bag,” said I; and folding 
it, I laid it on the board, just to take off the edge of 
the jolting a little. And my seat seemed a charm¬ 
ing one, after having been perched up on an office- 
stool so long. . 

That cushion of his took my eye at once. It 
looked as if it came out of a rocking-chair. The 
covering was of black cloth, worked in a very old- 
fashioned way, with pinks and tulips. The colors 
were faded, but it had a homespun, comfortable, 


18 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


countrified look; in fact, the first glance at that queer 
old cushion assured me that I was going to exactly 
the right place. 

Presently we got started, and certainly I never 
had a better ride, nor one with a pleasanter com¬ 
panion. He asked me all sorts of funny questions 
about electricity, and oxygen, and flying-machines, 
and the telegraph, and the moon and stars. 

“ Now you are a learned man, I suppose,” said 
he; “ and I want you to tell me how that golden- 
rod gets its yellow out of black ground.” I said 
I was not a learned man at all, and I didn’t believe 
learned men themselves could tell how it got its 
yellow, and the asters their purple, and the succory 
its blue, and the everlasting its white, all out of 
the same black ground. He said he was pretty 
sure his wife couldn’t boil up a kettleful and color 
either of those colors from them. 

So we went talking on. He asked me where I’d 
been stopping, and what I did for a living. And I 
told him what I did for a living, and all about soldier 
life, and the contrabands, and about my barrel. Our 
road led through woods part of the way, and I drew 


PREFACE 


19 


in long breaths of woody air. He told me a funny 
woodchuck story, and had a good deal to say about 
wood-lots, — how some rich men formerly owned 
great tracts, but becoming poor were forced to sell; 
and how, when pines were cut off, oaks grew up in 
their place. And among other things he told me 
that a hardhack would turn into a huckleberry- 
bush. I said that seemed like a miracle. He was 
going on to tell me about one that he had watched, 
but just then we turned into a pleasant, shady lane. 

We hadn’t gone far down this shady lane before 
we heard a loud screaming behind us, and looking 
round saw a small boy caught fast in the bushes by 
the skirt of his frock. 

“ Do you see that little boy? ” I asked. 

“ Oh, yes, I see him,” he said, laughing. “ Hello, 
Tommy! what you staying there for? ” 

The boy kept on crying. 

“ What you waiting for? ” he called out again, 
just as if he couldn’t see that the bushes would not 
let the child stir. 

We found out afterwards that little Tommy had 
hid there to jump out and scare his father, but got 



20 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

caught by the briers. I went to untangle him, — 
his clothes had several rents, — and was going to 
put him in the cart; but he would get in “ his own 
self,” he said. Then he stopped crying, and wanted 
to drive. His father said, “ No, not till we get 
through the bars.” 

Then Tommy began again. And at last he said, 
half crying and half talking. “ When I’m — the — 
father, and you’m — the — ’ittle Tommy — you 
can’t — drive — my — horse! ” 

His father laughed and said: “ Well, when I’m 
the little Tommy, I’ll brush the snarls off my face 
— so, and throw them under the wheels — so, and 
let ’em get run over! ” 

This made Tommy laugh, and very soon after 
we came to the bars. 

I looked ahead and saw a neat white house, not 
very large, with green blinds and a piazza, where 
flowering plants were climbing. There was a gar¬ 
den on one side and an orchard on the other. Just 
across the garden stood an old, brown, unpainted 
house. There were tall apple-trees growing near 
it, that looked about a hundred years old. My 







PREFACE 


21 


friend, Uncle Jacob, — I’ve heard him called Un¬ 
cle Jacob so much since that I really don’t know how 
to put a Mister to his name, — said those were 
Summer Sweeting trees, that had pretty nigh done 
bearing. He said there used to be Summer Sweet¬ 
ing trees growing all about there; and that when 
he took part of the place, and built him a house, he 
cut down the ones on his land, and set out Baldwins 
and Tallmans and Porters; but his mother kept hers 
for the good they had done, and for the sake of 
what few apples they did bear, to give away to the 
children. 

The houses had their backs towards me, and I 
was glad of that, for I always like back doors better 
than front ones. 

Uncle Jacob whistled, and I saw a blind fly open, 
and a handkerchief wave from an upper window, 
where two girls were sitting. Uncle Jacob’s wife 
stepped to the door and waved a sun-bonnet, and 
then stepped back again. 

“ Here, Tommy,” said Uncle Jacob, “ you carry 
in the magazine to Lucy Maria, and here’s Ma¬ 
tilda’s gum-arabic. I don’t see where Towser is.” 




22 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


I jumped out, and said I guessed I would keep 
on; for I began to feel bashful about seeing so many 
womenfolks. 

“ Where you going to keep on to? ” Uncle Jacob 
asked. “ This road don’t go any farther.” 

I said I would walk across the fields to the next 
village and find a hotel. 

“ Oh, no,” said he, “ stay here. Grandmother’ll 
be glad enough to hear about the contrabands. 
She’ll knit stockings, and pick up a good deal about 
the house to send off. And I want to ask much 
as five hundred questions more about matters and 
things myself. Come, stay. Yes, we’ll give you a 
good supper, a first-rate supper. Don’t be afraid. 
My wife’ll— There! I forgot her errand, now! 
But if you— Whoa! whoa! Georgiana, take 
this pattern in to your Aunt Phebe, and tell her I 
forgot to see if I could match it; but I don’t believe 
the man had any like it.” 

Georgiana was a nice little girl that just then came 
running across the garden, — William Henry’s sis¬ 
ter, as I learned afterwards. 

Just then Aunt Phebe stepped to the door again. 





PREFACE 


23 


“ Here are two hungry travellers/’ said Uncle 
Jacob, “ and one of us is bashful.” 

“ Well,” said Aunt Phebe, very cheerily, “ if any¬ 
body is hungry, this is just the right place. How 
do you do, sir? Come right in. We live so out 
of the way we’re always glad of company. Father, 
can’t you introduce your friend? ” 

“ Well — no — I can’t,” said he. “ But I guess 
he’s brother to the President! ” 

I said my name was Fry. 

Aunt Phebe said her father had a cousin that 
married a Fry, and asked what my mother’s maiden 
name was, I told her my mother was a Young, and 
that I was named for my father and mother both, — 
Silas Young Fry. 

I heard a tittering overhead, behind a pair of 
blinds, where I guessed some girls were peeping 
through. And afterwards, when I was sitting on 
the piazza, I heard one tell another, not thinking 
I was within hearing, that a young fry had come to 
supper. 

When we all sat round the table the girls seemed 
full of tickle, which they tried to hide, — and one of 



24 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


them asked me, — I think it was Hannah Jane, — 
with a very sober face: 

“ Mr. Fry, will you take some fried fish? ” 

I laughed and said, “ No, I never take anything 
fried.” 

Then we all laughed together, and so got ac¬ 
quainted very pleasantly; for I have observed that 
a little ripple of fun sets people nearer together than 
a whole ocean of calm conversation. 

After supper Uncle Jacob read the paper aloud, 
while the girls washed up the dishes. All were 
eager to hear; and I found they kept the run of 
affairs quite as well as townspeople. When there 
was too much rattling of dishes for Uncle Jacob 
to be heard, and the girls lost some important item, 
he was always willing to read it over. Little Tommy 
was rolled up in a shawl and set down in the rocking- 
chair (that cushion did come out of it) while his 
mother mended his clothes. This was the way he 
usually got punished for tearing them. He was 
done up in a shawl, arms and all, and kept in the 
rocking-chair while the clothes were being mended, 
and he was obliged to remain pretty quiet, or the 


PREFACE 


25 


chair would tip. Aunt Phebe said Tommy was so 
careless, something must be done, and keeping him 
still was the worst punishment he could have. 

When the girls finished their dishes and took out 
their sewing, and were going to light the large lamp, 
their mother said that we mustn’t think of settling 
ourselves for the evening. She said we must all go 
in to Grandmother’s, for she’d be dreadful lonely, 
missing Billy so. 

Then Aunt Phebe told me how her nephew, Billy, 
a ten-year-old boy, had gone away to school only 
the day before, and how they all missed him. 

“ Isn’t he pretty young to go away to school? ” 
I asked. 

“ That’s what I told his father,” said she. 

“ His father sent him away to keep him,” said 
Uncle Jacob. “ Grandmother was spoiling him.” 

“ Ruining the boy with kindness? ” said Lucy 
Maria. 

“ Well,” said Aunt Phebe, “ I suppose ’twas so. 
I know ’twas so. But we did hate to have Billy 
go! ” 

Uncle Jacob then took me across the garden, and 


26 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


introduced me to Mr. Carver, the father of William 
Henry, and to Grandmother, — old Mrs. Carver, 
as the neighbors called her. 

She was a smiling, blue-eyed old lady, though 
with a little bit of an anxious look just between the 
eyes. I thought there was no doubt about her be¬ 
ing a grandmother that would spoil boys. 

“ Why, there’s Towser, now! ” said Uncle Jacob. 
“ He didn’t come to meet me to-night.” 

“ He’s been there, off and on, pretty much all 
day,” said grandmother. “ You see what he’s got 
his head on, don’t you? ” 

“ Billy’s old boots! ” said Uncle Jacob. 

“ Yes. He set a good deal by Billy. I haven’t 
put the boots away yet,” she said, with a sigh. 

“ Here, Towser! ” cried Uncle Jacob. 

Towser was a big, shaggy, clever-looking dog. 
He got up slowly, sniffed at my trousers, then 
walked to Uncle Jacob, then round the room, then 
to the door, then upstairs and down again, and 
then back he went and lay down by the boots. 

“ He misses my grandson,” said grandmother to 
me, trying to smile about it. 



PREFACE 


27 


The little girl, Georgiana, sat on a cricket, holding 
a kitten, tying and untying its ribbon. A square of 
patchwork had fallen on the floor. She stooped to 
pick it up and dropped her spool. That rolled 
away towards the door, and kitty jumped for it 
and soon got the thread in a tangle. The door 
opened so suddenly that she hopped up about two 
feet into the air and tumbled head over heels. 

It was Lucy Maria who opened the door. The 
other girls came soon after; and when Tommy 
was asleep Aunt Phebe came, too. We had a very 
sociable time. I don’t call myself a talker, but I 
didn’t mind talking there, they seemed so easy, just 
like one’s own folks. I told Grandmother many 
things about the contrabands, and about Southern 
life, and Southern people, and about soldier life and 
battles and rations and making raids, and the Wash¬ 
ington hospitals, and how needy the contrabands 
were, and about my barrel. “ Poor creatures! ” 
said she. “ I must look up some things for them 
to-morrow.” Aunt Phebe thought there might be 
a good many things lying about that would be of use. 

“ Billy’s boots! ” cried Hannah Jane. 


28 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


“ Why, yes,” said her mother, “ no use keeping 
boots for a growing boy.” 

This and other remarks brought us back to Wil¬ 
liam Henry again, and Grandmother seemed glad 
of it. She liked to keep talking about her boy. 

“ I shall feel very anxious,” she said. “ I hope 
he will write soon as he gets there. I told him he’d 
better write every day, so I could be sure just how 
he was. For if well one day, he mightn’t be the 
next.” 

“Oh, Grandmother, that’s too bad! ” said Lucy 
Maria. “ ’Tis cruel to ask a boy to write every 
day! ” 

“ I wouldn’t worry, Mother,” said Aunt Phebe. 
“ Billy’s always been a well child.” 

“ These strong constitutions,” said Grandmother, 
“ when they do take anything, ’tis apt to go hard 
with ’em.” 

“ He’s taken pretty much everything that can be 
given to him already,” said Aunt Phebe. 

“ I suppose they’ll put clothes enough on his bed,” 
said Grandmother. “ I can’t bear to think of his 
sleeping cold nights.” 


PREFACE 


29 


“ Perhaps they have blankets in that part of the 
country/’ said Uncle Jacob. 

“ But people are not always thoughtful about 
it/’ said Grandmother. “ I really hope he’ll take 
care of himself, and not be climbing up everywhere. 
Houses and trees were bad enough; but now they 
have gymnastic poles and everything else, to tempt 
boys off the ground. O dear! when we think of 
everything that might happen to boys, ’tis a wonder 
one of them ever lives to grow up. Isn’t there a 
pond near by? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Lucy Maria, “ Crooked Pond. 
That’s what gives the name to the school, — 
Crooked Pond School.” 

“ I hope he won’t be whipped,” said his little 
sister. 

“ Whipped! ” cried Aunt Phebe, “ I should like 
to see anybody whipping our Billy! ” 

“ Oh, mother, I shouldn’t,” said Matilda. 

“ ’Tisn’t an impossible thing,” said Grandmother. 
“ He’s quick. Billy’s good-hearted, but he’s quick. 
He might speak up. I gave him a charge how to 
behave. But then, what’s a boy’s memory? I 


30 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

don’t suppose he’ll remember one half the things I 
told him. I meant to have charged him over again, 
the last thing, not to stay out in the rain and get 
wet, where there’s nobody to see to his clothes being 
dried.” 

“ Well,” said Uncle Jacob, “ if a boy doesn’t know 
enough to go into the house when it rains, he better 
come home.” 

“ What I hope is,” said Aunt Phebe, “ that he’ll 
keep himself looking decent.” 

“ If he does,” said Lucy Maria, “ then ’twill be 
the first time. The poor child never seemed to have 
much luck about keeping spruced up. If anybody 
here ever saw William Henry with no buttons off 
and both shoes tied, and no rip anywhere, let ’em 
raise their hands! ” 

Everybody laughed. I thought Grandmother’s 
eye wandered round the circle, as if half taking it all 
in earnest, and half hoping some hand would go up. 
But no hand went up. 

“ Billy always was hard on his clothes,” she said, 
with a sigh. “ If he only keeps well I won’t say a 
word; but there’s always danger of boys eating un- 


PREFACE 


31 


wholesome things, where there’s nobody to deny 
them.” 

“ Billy’s stomach’s his own, and he must learn to 
have the care of it,” said Mr. Carver. 

Mr. Carver seemed a very quiet, thoughtful man, 
and of quite a different turn from his brother. 

I suggested that boarding-house diet was apt to 
be plain; and then told Grandmother about a 
nephew of mine, a nice boy, who was rather older 
than her grandson, who was named after me, and of 
whom I thought everything. I told her he had been 
away at school a year, and that he enjoyed himself, 
and went ahead in his studies, and never had a sick 
day, and came home with better manners than he 
had when he went away. As this pleased her, I said 
everything I could think of about my nephew, in¬ 
cluding some anecdotes of little Silas, when he was 
quite small; and she told a few about William Henry, 
the others helping her out, now and then, with some 
missing items. 

Uncle Jacob said he shouldn’t dare to say how 
many times she’d been frightened almost to death 
about Billy. Many and many a time she was sure 


32 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


he was lost, or drowned, or run over, or carried off, 
and would never come back alive; but he always 
managed to come out straight at last. Uncle Jacob 
said that if all the worry in this world were piled up 
together, ’twould make a mountain; but if all of 
it that needn’t be worried were knocked off, what 
was left wouldn’t be bigger than a huckleberry hill. 

Mr. Carver said there was one thing which made 
him entirely willing to trust William Henry away, 
and that was, he had always been a boy of principle. 
“ I have watched him pretty closely,” said Mr. Car¬ 
ver, “ and have noticed that he has a kind of pride 
about him that will not permit him to lie, or equivo¬ 
cate in any way.” 

“ That’s true! ” cried Aunt Phebe. “ True 
enough! Billy don’t always look fit to be seen, but 
he isn’t deceitful. I’ll say that for him! ” 

“ When he went to our school,” said Matilda, 
“ and was in the class below me, and there was a 
fuss among the boys, and all of ’em told it a different 
way, the teacher used to say she would ask William 
Henry, and then she could tell just how it hap¬ 
pened.” 


PREFACE 


33 


“ He couldn’t have a better name than that,” said 
Mr. Carver. 

Grandmother wiped her eyes, she seemed so grati¬ 
fied that her boy’s good qualities were remembered 
at last. 

I am almost certain that an editor should not be 
so long in telling his story. But I should like to say 
a little more about that first night, — just a very 
little more. 

Grandmother wouldn’t hear of my going to a 
hotel. Anybody that had been a soldier, and was 
doing good, should never go from her house to find 
a night’s lodging. And she might as well have said, 
particularly anybody that had a little Silas away at 
school, for I saw she felt it. 

It required very little urging to make me stay; 
for in all my travels I have never met with a pleas¬ 
anter set of people. My choice was offered me, 
whether to lodge in the front chamber, or in the little 
back chamber where Billy slept. Of course I chose 
the last; for people’s best, front, spare chambers 
never suit me very well. 


34 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


Billy’s room was a snug little room, low in the 
walls, and papered with flowery paper. There were 
two windows, the curtains to which were made of 
paper like that on the walls. You had to roll them 



up with your hands, and tie them with a string that 
went over the top. The room was over the sink- 
room, and in going into it we stepped one step down. 
There was no carpet on the floor, excepting a strip 
by the bedside and a mat before the table. Grand- 




































































































































































































PREFACE 


35 


mother said the table Billy and she made together, 
so the legs didn’t stand quite true. It was covered 
with calico, and more calico was puckered on round 
the edge and came down to the floor. That was 
done, she said, to make a place for his boots and 
shoes. She thought ’twas well for a boy to have a 
place for his things, even if he did always leave them 
somewhere else. There was nothing under the ta¬ 
ble but one rubber boot, with the rubber mostly cut 
off, and some pieces of new pine, easy to whittle, that 
Billy had picked up and stowed away there. A 
narrow looking-glass hung over the table. It had a 
queer picture at the top, of two Japanese figures. 
The glass had a little crack in one corner, — cracked 
by his ball bouncing up when he was trying it. Some 
green tissue-paper hung around this fracture with a 
very innocent, ornamental air. Not far from the 
glass I observed a rusty jack-knife stuck in the wall, 
close to the window-frame; and on its handle was 
hanging a string of birds’-eggs. In stepping up to 
examine these I stumbled against an old hair-cov¬ 
ered trunk, quite a large one. The cover seemed a 
little askew, and not inclined to shut. This trunk 



36 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


was the color of a red cow, and for aught I know 
was covered with the skin of a red cow. In the mid¬ 
dle of the cover the letters W. C. were printed in 
brass nails, which led me to guess that the trunk 
had belonged to William Henry’s father. Grand¬ 
mother raised the cover, to see what kept it from 
shutting, and found ’twas a great scraggly piece of 
sassafras (saxifax) root, which lay on top. 

There was everything in that trunk, — every¬ 
thing. Of course I don’t mean meeting-houses, or 
steamboats, or anacondas; but everything a boy 
would be likely to have. I saw picture papers, 
leather straps, old pocket-books, a pair of dividers, 
the hull of a boat, a pair of boot-pullers, a chrysalis, 
several penholders, a large clam-shell, a few pocket 
combs, — comb parts gone, — fishing-lines, reels, 
bobs, sinkers, a bullet-mould, arrows, a bag of mar¬ 
bles, a china egg, a rule, hammers, a red comforter, 
two odd mittens, “ that had lost the mates of ’em,” 
a bird-call, a mask, an empty cologne-bottle, a dime 
novel, odd cards, — all these, and more, were visible 
by merely stirring the top layer a little. Also sev¬ 
eral tangles of twine, twining and intertwining 



PREFACE 


37 


among the mass. Grandmother shook up the things 
some, — by means of a handle which probably be¬ 
longed to a hatchet, but the hatchet part was buried, 
— and I saw that the bottom was covered with mar¬ 
bles, dominoes, nails, bottles, slate-pencils, bits of 
brass-clock machinery, and all the innumerable 
nameless, shapeless things which would be likely to 
settle down on the bottom of a boy’s trunk. Grand¬ 
mother said she should set it to rights if it weren’t 
for fish-hooks; but anybody’s hands going in there 
would be likely to get fish-hooks stuck into them. 

In one end of the trunk was quite a fanciful box. 
It was nothing but a common pine box, painted 
black, with “ cut out ” pictures pasted on it. There 
were ladies’ faces, generals’ heads, bugs, horses, but¬ 
terflies, chairs, ships, birds, and in the centre of the 
cover, outside, there was a large red rose on its 
stalk. At the centre, inside, was a laughing, or 
rather a grinning face, cut from some comic maga¬ 
zine. In this box was kept some of his more pre¬ 
cious treasures, — a little brass anchor, a silver pen¬ 
cil-case, a whole set of dominoes, and a ball, very 
prettily worked, orange-peel pattern, in many colors. 





38 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

This was a present from his teacher. There was 
also a curious pearl-handled knife, with the blades 
broken short off. She said he never felt so badly 
about breaking any knife as when that got broken, 
for it was one his cousin brought him home from sea. 
He was keeping it to have new blades put in. 

“ How much this trunk reminds me of little Silas’s 
bureau-drawer! ” I said, taking up an old writing- 
book. As I spoke several bits of paper fell out and 
among them were some very funny pictures, done 
with a lead-pencil and then inked over. 

“ What are these? ” I asked. “ Does he draw? ” 
“ Well — not exactly,” she answered, — “ noth¬ 
ing that can be called drawing. He tries sometimes 
to copy what he sees.” 

“ I suppose I may look at them,” I said, picking 
up one of the bits of paper. “ Pray what is this? ” 
Grandmother put on her spectacles, and turned 
the paper round, as if trying to find the up and down 
of it. “ Oh, this is Uncle Jacob chasing the calf,” 
said she; “ those things that look like elbows are 
meant for his legs kicking up. And on this piece 
he’s tried to make the old gobbler flying at Georgi- 




PREFACE 


39 


ana. You see the turkey is as big as she is. But 
maybe you don’t know which the turkey is! That 
one is the fat man, and that one is the cat and the 
kittens. And that one is a dandy, making a bow. 
He saw a fellow like that over at the hotel and made 
a picture of him.” 

She was sitting by the bed, and as she named 
them, spread them out upon it, one by one, along 
with some others I have not mentioned, all very 



comical. When I had finished laughing over them 
I said: 

“ I should like to send these pictures in my barrel. 
’Twould give the little sick contrabands something 
to laugh at.” 

“ Well, I’ll tell Billy when he comes,” she an- 
















40 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


swered, then gathered them up and smoothed the 
quilt again. 

The bedstead was a low one, without any posts, 
except that each leg ended at the top with a little 
round, fat head or knob. The quilt was made of 
light and dark patchwork. Grandmother told me, 
lowering her voice, that Billy’s mother made that 
patchwork when she was a little girl just learning 
to sew; but ’twas kept laid away, and about the last 
work she ever did was to set it together. And ’twas 
her request that Billy should have it on his bed. She 
said Billy was a very feeling boy, though he didn’t 
say much. One time, a couple of years ago, she 
hung that quilt out to blow, and forgot to take it 
in till after the dew began to fall, so, being a little 
damp, she put on another one. But next morning 
she looked in, and there ’twas, over him, spread on 
all skewy. 

“ Sometimes I think,” she added, “ that boys have 
more feeling than we give them credit for! ” 

“ I know they have! ” I answered. 

A picture of William Henry’s mother hung oppo¬ 
site the bed. It was not a very handsome face, nor 


PREFACE 


41 


a pretty face. But it had such an earnest, loving, 
wistful expression, that I could not help exclaiming, 
“ Beautiful! ” 

“ Yes, she was a beautiful woman. We all loved 
her. She was just like a daughter to me. Billy 
doesn’t know what he’s lost, and ’tis well he don’t. 
I try to be a mother to him; but they say,” said the 
tender-hearted old lady, — “ they say a grand¬ 
mother isn’t fit to have the bringing up of a child! 
Billy has his faults.” 

“ Now if I were a child,” I exclaimed, “ I should 
rather you would have the bringing up of me than 
anybody I know of! And ’tis my opinion, from 
what I hear, that you’ve done well by Billy. Of 
course boys are boys, and don’t always do as they 
ought to. Now there’s little Silas. He’s been a 
world of trouble first and last. But then boys soon 
get big enough to be ashamed of all their little bad 
ways. The biggest part of ’em like good men best, 
and mean to be good men. And I think Billy’s 
going to grow up a capital fellow! A capital fel¬ 
low! If a boy’s true-hearted, he’ll come out all 
right. And your boy is, isn’t he? ” 



42 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


“Oh, very! ” she said. “ Very! ” 

I was so glad to think, after the old lady had 
gone down, that I’d said something which, if she 
kept awake, thinking about the boy, would be a com¬ 
fort to her. 

Next morning Grandmother brought out quite 
an armful of old clothes. A poor old couple, living 
near, she said, took most of hers and Mr. Carver’s; 
but what few there were of Billy’s that were decent 
to send I might have. A couple of linen jackets, 
a Scotch cap, two pairs of thin trousers, not much 
worn, but outgrown, a small overcoat, several pairs 
of stockings, and some shoes. And the boots also, 
and some underclothing, that William Henry might 
have worn longer, she said, if he were only living at 
home, where she could put a stitch in ’em now and 
then. 

Grandmother sighed as she emptied the pockets 
of crumbles, green apples, reins, bullets, and 
knotted, gray, balled-up pocket-handkerchiefs. 
Among the clothes she brought out a funny little 
uniform, which I had seen hanging up in his room, 


PREFACE 


43 


— one that he had when a soldier, or trainer, as she 
called it, in a military company, formed near the 
beginning of the war. It consisted of a blue flan¬ 
nel sack, edged with red braid, red flannel Zouave 
trousers, and a blue flannel cap, bound with red, and 
having a square visor. That uniform would fit 
some little contraband, she said. 

“ Hadn’t you better keep those? ” I asked. 
“ Won’t he want them? ” 

“ Oh, no,” she said. “ He’s outgrown them. 
And ’tis no use keeping them for moths to get into.” 

She gave me some picture-books, and two primers, 
a roll of linen, and quite a good blanket, all of which 
I received thankfully. 

In rolling up the different articles, I saw her eye 
resting so lovingly on the little uniform, that I said, 
“ Here, Grandmother, hadn’t you better take back 
these? ” 

“Oh, I guess not,” she answered. “ I guess you 
better send them. But,” she added a moment after, 
“ perhaps they might as well stay till you send an¬ 
other barrel.” 

“ Just exactly as well,” I said. And the old 


44 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


lady seemed as if she had recovered a lost treas¬ 
ure. 

Aunt Phebe added a good many valuable articles, 
so that by the time Uncle Jacob was ready to start 
I had collected two immense bundles, and felt al¬ 
most brave enough to face another barrel. For 
they all said they would beg from their friends, and 
save things, and that I must certainly come again. 

“ For you know,” said Aunt Phebe, “ ’tis a great 
deal better to hear you tell things than to read 
about them in the newspapers.” 

They stood about the door to see us off, and Ma¬ 
tilda stroked the old horse, and talked to him as if 
he understood. She broke off two heads of phlox, 
red and white, and fastened them in behind his ear. 
Uncle Jacob told me, as we rode along, that the 
old horse really expected to be patted and talked 
to before starting. • And indeed I noticed myself 
that after being dressed up he stepped off with an 
exceedingly satisfied air, just as I have seen some 
little girls, — and boys, too, for that matter, and 
occasionally grown people. 



PREFACE 


45 


But it is quite time to give you the Letters. 
There should be more of them, for the correspond¬ 
ence covers a period of about two years. ’Tis true 
that, after the first, William Henry did not write 
nearly so often. But still there are many missing. 
Little Tommy cut up some into strings of boys and 
girls, and at one time when grandmother wasn’t very 
well, and had to hire help, the girl took some to 
kindle fires with. The old lady said she was sitting 
up in her arm-chair, by the fireplace one day, when 
she saw, in the corner, a piece of paper with writing 
on it, half burnt up. She poked it out with a yard¬ 
stick, and ’twas one of Billy’s letters! Quite a 
number which were perfect have been omitted. 
This is because that some coming between were 
missing; and so, as the children say, there wouldn’t 
be any sense to them. Others contained mostly 
private matters. Very few were dated. This is, 
however, of small importance, as the Letters proba¬ 
bly will never be brought forward to decide a law 


case. 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


CROOKED POND SCHOOL 

My Dear Grandmother: 

I think the school that I have come to is a very- 
good school. We have dumplings. I’ve tied up 
the pills that you gave me in case of feeling bad, in 
the toe of my cotton stocking that’s lost the mate 
of it. The mince pies they have here are baked 
without any plums being put into them. So, please, 
need I say, “ No, I thank you, ma’am,” to ’em when 
they come round? If they don’t agree, shall I take 
the pills or the drops? Or was it the hot flannels, 
— and how many? 

I’ve forgot about being shivery. Was it to eat 
roast onions? No, I guess not. I guess it was a 
wet band tied round my head. Please write it 
down, because you told me so many things I can’t 
remember. How can anybody tell when anybody 

46 



DORRY BAKER 


47 


is sick enough to take things? You can’t think 
what a great, tall man the schoolmaster is. He 
has got something very long to flog us with, that 
bends easy, and hurts, — Q. S. So Dorry says. 
Q. S. is in the abbreviations, and stands for a suf¬ 
ficient quantity. Dorry says the master keeps a 
paint-pot in his room, and has his whiskers painted 
black every morning, and his hair, too, to make him¬ 
self look scareful. Dorry is one of the great boys. 
But Tom Cush is bigger. I don’t like Tom Cush. 

I have a good many to play with; but I miss you 
and Towser and all of them very much. How 
does my sister do? Don’t let the cow eat my peach- 
tree. Dorry Baker he says that peaches don’t grow 
here; but he says the cherries have peach-stones in 
them. 

In a month my birthday will be here. How 
funny ’twill seem to be eleven, when I’ve been ten 
so long! I don’t skip over any buttonholes in the 
morning now; so my jacket comes out even. 

Why didn’t you tell me I had a red head? But I 
can run faster than any of them that are no bigger 
than I am, and some that are. One of the spokes 



48 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


of my umbrella broke itself in two yesterday, be¬ 
cause the wind blew so when it rained. 

We learn to sing. He says I’ve a good deal of 

% 

voice; but I’ve forgot what the matter is with 
it. We go up and down the scale, and beat time. 
The last is the best fun. The other is hard to do. 
But if I could only get up, I guess ’twould be easy 
to come down. He thinks something ails my ear. 
I thought he said I hadn’t got any at all. What 
have a feller’s ears to with singing, or with scal¬ 
ing up and down? 

Your affectionate grandchild, 

- r William Henry. 

P. S. Here’s a conundrum Dorry Baker made: 
In a race, why would the singing-master win? Be¬ 
cause “ Time flies,” and he beats time. 

I want to see Aunt Phebe, and Aunt Phebe’s lit¬ 
tle Tommy, dreadfully. 

W. H. 

This second letter must have been pleasing to 
Aunt Phebe, as it shows that William Henry was be¬ 
ginning to have some faint regard for his personal 
appearance. 


PINK SOAP 


49 


My Dear Grandmother: 

I’ve got thirty-two cents left of my spending- 
money. When shall I begin to wear my new shoes 
everyday? The soap they have here is pink. Has 
father sold the bossy calf yet? There’s a boy 
here they call Bossy Calf, because he cried for 
his mother. He has been here three days. He 
sleeps with me. And every night, after he has laid 
his head down on the pillow, and the lights are 
blown out, I begin to sing, and to scale up and 
down, so the boys can’t hear him cry. Dorry Baker 
and three more boys sleep in the same room that we 
two sleep in. When they begin to throw bootjacks 
at me, to make me stop my noise, it scares him, and 
he leaves off crying. I want a pair of new boots 
dreadfully, with red on the tops of them, that I can 
tuck my trousers into and keep the mud off. 

One thing more the boys plague me for besides my 
head. Freckles. Dorry held up an orange yes¬ 
terday. “ Can you see it? ” says he. “ To be 
sure,” says I. “ Didn’t know as you could see 
through ’em,” says he, meaning freckles. Dear 
Grandmother, I have cried once, but not in bed. 


50 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

For fear of their laughing, and of the bootjacks. 
But away in a good place under the trees. A shaggy 
dog came along and licked my face. But oh! he 
did make me remember Towser, and cry all over 



again. But don’t tell, for I should be ashamed. 
I wish the boys would like me. Freckles come 
thicker in summer than they do in winter. 

Your affectionate grandchild, 

William Henry. 

If William Henry’s recipe for the prevention o' 
spunkiness were generally adopted, I fancy tha: 
many a boy would be seen practising the circus 
performance here mentioned. It must have been 
“ sure cure! ” I well remember the “ plaguing ” 
of my school days, and know from experience how 
hard it is for a boy (or a man) always to keep his 






























KEEPING ACCOUNTS 


51 


temper. The fellows used to make fun of my name. 
In our quarrels, when there was nothing else left to 
say, they would call out, — leaving off the Silas, — 
“ Y Fry? why not ‘ bake ’, or 1 boil ’, or ‘ stew 
Of course, to such remarks there was no answer. 

It is to be regretted that so few of Grandmother’s 
letters were preserved. As Billy here makes known 
the state of his pocket-book, we may infer that she 
had been inquiring into his accounts, and perhaps 
cautioning him against spending too freely. 

My Dear Grandmother: 

I do what you told me. You told me to bite my 
lips and count ten, before I spoke, when the boys 
plague me, because I’m a spunky boy. But doing 
it so much makes my lips sore. So now I go head 
over heels sometimes, till I’m out of breath. Then 
I can’t say anything. 

This is the account you asked me for, of all I’ve 
bought this week: 

Slippery elm .... 1 cent 

Corn-ball . . . .1 cent 

Gum.1 cent 

And I swapped a whip-lash that I found for an 
orange that had one suck sucked out of it. The 




52 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


“ Two Betsys,” they keep very good things to sell. 
They are two old women that live in a little hut with 
two rooms to it, and a ladder to go up stairs by, 
through a hole in the wall. One Betsy, she is lame 



and keeps still, and sells the things to us sitting 
down. The other Betsy, she can run, and keeps a 
yard-stick to drive away boys with. For they have 
apple-trees in their garden. But she never touches 
a boy, if she does catch him. They have hens and 
sell eggs. 

The boys that sleep in the same room that we do 
wanted Benjie and me to join together with them 
to buy a great confectioner’s frosted cake, and other 
things. And when the lamps had been blown out, 
to keep awake and light them up again, and so have 
a supper late at night, with the curtains all down 







GETTING ACQUAINTED 


53 


and the blinds shut up, when people were in bed, 
and not let anybody know. 

t 

But Benjie hadn’t any money. Because his 
father works hard for his living, — but his uncle 
pays for his schooling, — and he wouldn’t if he had. 
And I said I wouldn’t do anything so deceitful. 
And the more they said “ You must ” and “ You 
shall,” the more I said I wouldn’t and I shouldn’t, 
and the money should blow up first. 

So they called me “ Old Stingy ” and “ Pepper¬ 
corn ” and “ Speckled Potatoes.” Said they’d pull 



my hair if ’tweren’t for burning their fingers. 
Dorry was the maddest one. Said he guessed my 
hair was tired of standing up. 
















54 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


I wish you would please send me a new comb, for 
the large end of mine has got all but five of the teeth 
broken out, and the small end can’t get through. 
I can’t get it cut because the barber has raised his 
price. Send quite a stout one. 

I have lost two of my pocket-handkerchiefs, and 
another one went up on Dorry’s kite, and blew 
away. 

Your affectionate grandchild, 

William Henry. 


My Dear Grandmother: 

I did what you told me, when I got wet. I hung 
my clothes round the kitchen stove on three chairs, 
but the cooking girl she flung them under the table. 
So now I go wrinkled, and the boys chase me to 
smooth out the wrinkles. I’ve got a good many 
hard rubs. But I laugh, too. That’s the best way. 
Some of the boys play with me now, and ask me to 
go around with them. Dorry hasn’t yet. Tom 
Cush plagues the most. 

Sometimes the schoolmaster comes out to see us 


GETTING ACQUAINTED 


55 


when we are playing ball, or jumping. To-day, 
when we all clapped Dorry, the schoolmaster 
clapped, too. Somebody told me that he likes boys. 
Do you believe it? 

A cat ran up the spout this morning, and jumped 
in the window. Dorry was going to choke her, or 
drown her, for the working-girl said she licked out 
the inside of a custard-pie. I asked Dorry what 



he would take to let her go, and he said five cents. 
So I paid. For she was just like my sister’s cat. 
And just as likely as not somebody’s little sister 
would have cried about it. For she had a ribbon 
tied round her neck. 

The woman that I go to have my buttons sewed 
on to, is a very good woman. She gave me a cookie 









56 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

with a hole in the middle, and told me to mind and 
not eat the hole. 

Coming back, I met Benjie, and he looked so 
sober, I offered it to him as quick as I could. But 
it almost made him cry; because, he said, his mother 
made her cookies with a hole in the middle. But 
when he gets acquainted, he won’t be so bashful, 
and he’ll feel better then. 

We walked away to a good place under the trees, 
and he talked about his folks, and his grandmother, 
and his Aunt Polly, and the two little twins. 
They’ve got two cradles just like each other, and 
they are just as big as each other, and just as old. 
They creep round on the floor, and when one picks 
up anything, the other pulls it away. I wish we had 
some twins. I told him things, too. 

Kiss yourself for me. 

Your affectionate grandchild, 

William Henry. 

P. S. If you send a cake, send quite a large one. 
I like the kind that Uncle Jacob does. Aunt Phebe 
knows. 


GAPPER SKYBLUE 


57 


My Dear Grandmother: 

I was going to tell you about “ Gapper Sky- 
blue.” “ Gapper ” means grandpa. He wears all 
the time blue overalls, faded out, and a jacket like 
them. That’s why they call him “ Gapper Sky- 
blue.” He’s a very poor old man. He saws wood. 
We found him leaning up against a tree. Benjie 
and I were together. His hair is all turned white, 
and his back is bent. He had great patches on his 
knees. His hat was an old hat that he had given 
him, and his shoes let in the mud. I wish you would 
please to be so good as to send me both your old- 
fashioned India-rubbers, to make balls of, as quick 
as holes come. Almost all the boys have lost their 
balls. And please to send some shoe-strings next 
time, for I have to tie mine up all the time now with 
some white cord that I found, and it gets into hard 
knots, and I have to stoop my head ’way down and 
untie ’em with my teeth, because I cut my thumb 
whittling, and jammed my fingers in the gate. 

Old Gapper Skyblue’s nose is pretty long, and 
he looked so funny leaning up against a tree, that 
I was just going to laugh. But then I remembered 


58 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


what you said a real gentleman would do. That he 
would be polite to all people, no matter what clothes 
they had on, or whether they were rich people or 
poor people. He had a big basket with two covers 
to it, and we offered to carry it for him. 



He said, “ Yes, little boys, if you won’t lift up the 

covers.” 

• 

We found ’twas pretty heavy. And I wondered 
what was in it, and so did Benjie. The basket was 
going to “ The Two Betsys.” 

When we had got half-way there, Dorry and 
Tom Gush came along, and called out: “Hello! 
there, you two. What are you lugging off so fast? ” 
We said we didn’t know. They said, “ Let’s 













TOM CUSH 


59 


see.” We said, “ No, you can’t see.” Then they 
pushed us. Gapper was a good way behind. I 
sat down on one cover, and Benjie on the other, to 
keep them shut up. 

Then they pulled us. I swung my arms round, 
and made the sand fly with my feet, for I was just 
as mad as anything. Then Tom Cush hit me. So 

I ran to tell Gapper to make haste. But first picked 

« 

up a stone to send at Tom Cush. But remembered 
about the boy that threw a stone and hit a boy, and 
he died. I mean the boy that was hit. And so 
dropped the stone down again and ran like light¬ 
ning. 

“ Go it, you pesky little red-headed firebug! ” 
cried Tom Cush. 

“ Go it, Spunkum! I’ll hold your breath,” Dorry 
hollered out. 

The dog, the shaggy dog that licked my face 
when I was lying under the trees, he came along and 
growled and snapped at them, because they were 
hurting Benjie. You see Benjie treats him well, 
and gives him bones. And the master came in sight, 
too. So they were glad to let us alone. 


60 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


The basket had rabbits in it. Gapper Skyblue 
wanted to pay us two cents apiece. But we 
wouldn’t take pay. We wouldn’t be so mean. 

When we were going along to school, Bubby 
Short came and whispered to me that Tom and 
Dorry were hiding my bird’s eggs in a post-hole. 
But I got them again. Two broke. 

Bubby Short is a nice little fellow. He’s about 

• * 

as old as I am, but over a head shorter and quite 
fat. His cheeks reach ’way up into his eyes. He’s 
got little black eyes, and little cunning teeth, just 
as white as the meat of a punkin-seed. 

I had to pay twenty cents of that quarter you sent, 
for breaking a square of glass. But didn’t mean to, 
so please excuse. I haven’t much left. 

Your affectionate grandchild, 

William Henry. 

P. S. Wh$n punkins come, save the seeds — to 
roast. If you please. 

My Dear Grandmother: 

One of my elbows came through, but the woman 


MISHAPS 


61 


sewed it up again. I’ve used up both balls of my 
twine. And my white-handled knife, — I guess 
it went through a hole in my pocket, that I didn’t 
know of till after the knife was lost. My trousers 
grow pretty short. But she says ’tis partly my 
legs getting long. I’m glad of that. And partly 
getting ’em wet. 

I stubbed my toe against a stump, and tumbled 
down and scraped a hole through the knee of my 
oldest pair. For it was very rotten cloth. I guess 
the hole is too crooked to have her sew it up again. 
She thinks a mouse ran up the leg, and gnawed that 
hole my knife went through, to get the crumbles 
in the pocket. I don’t mean when they were on me, 
but hanging up. 

My boat is almost rigged. She says she will 
hem the sails if I won’t leave any more caterpillars 
in my pockets. I’m getting all kinds of caterpillars 
to see what kind of butterflies they make. 

Yesterday, Dorry and I started from the pond to 
run and see who would get home first. He went 
one way, and I went another. 

I cut across the Two Betsys’ garden. But I don’t 


62 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


see how I did so much hurt in just once cutting 
across. I knew something cracked, — that was the 
sink-spout I jumped down on, off the fence. There 
was a board I hit, that had huckleberries spread out 
on it to dry. They went into the rain-water hogs¬ 
head. I didn’t know any huckleberries were spread 
out on that board. 

I meant to go between the rows, but guess I 
stepped on a few beans. My wrist got hurt dread¬ 
fully by my getting myself tripped up in a squash- 
vine. And while I was down there, a bumble-bee 
stung me on my chin. 

And then I stepped on a little chicken, for she ran 
the way I thought she wasn’t going to. I don’t re¬ 
member whether I shut the gate or not. But guess 
not, for the pig got in, and went to rooting before 
Lame Betsy saw him, and the other Betsy had gone 
somewhere. 

I got home first, but my wrist ached, and my sting 
smarted. You forgot to write down what was good 
for bumble-bee stings. Benjie said his Aunt Polly 
put damp sand on to stings. So he put a good 
deal of it on my chin, and it got better, though my 



THE TWO BETSYS 


63 


wrist kept aching in the night. And I went to school 
with it aching. But didn’t tell anybody but Benjie. 
Just before school was done, the master said we 
might put away our books. Then he talked about 
the Two Betsys, and told how Lame Betsy got 
lame by saving a little boy’s life when the house was 
on fire. She jumped out of the window with him. 
And he made us all feel ashamed that we great 
strong boys should torment two poor women. 

Then he told about the damage done the day 
before by some boy running through their garden, 
and said five dollars would hardly be enough to 
pay it. “ I don’t know what boy it was, but if he 
is present,” says he, “ I call upon him to rise.” 

Then I stood up. I was ashamed, but I stood 
up. For you told me once this saying: “ Even if 
truth be a loaded cannon, walk straight up to it,” and 
I remembered it. 

The master ordered me not to go on to the play¬ 
ground for a week, nor be out of the house in play- 
hours. 

From your affectionate grandchild, 

William Henry. 


64 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


My Dear Grandmother: 

Lame Betsy gave me something to put on my 
wrist that cured it. I went there to ask how much 
money must be paid. I had sold my football, and 
my brass sword, and my pocket-book. They told 
me they should not take any money, but if I would 
saw some wood for them, and do an errand now and 
then, they should be very glad. When I told Dorry, 
he threw up his hat, and called out, “ Three cheers 
for the ‘ Two Betsys.’ ” And when his hat came 
down, he picked it up and passed it round; “ for,” 
says he, “ we all owe them something.” One great 
boy dropped fifty cents in. And it all came to about 
four dollars. And Bubby Short carried it to them. 
But I shall saw some wood for them all the same, and 
try to pay them. 

Last evening it was rainy. A good many boys 
came into our room, and we sat in a row, and every 
one said some verses, or told a riddle. These two 
verses I send for Aunt Phebe’s little Tommy to 
learn. I guess he’s done saying “ Fishy, fishy in 
the brook ” by this time. Dorry said he got them 
out of the German. 


RIDDLES 


65 


When you are rich, 

You can ride with a span; 
But when you are poor, 
You must go as you can. 


Better honest and poor, 
And go as you can, 
Than rich and a rogue, 
And ride with a span.” 


This riddle was too hard for me to guess. But 
Aunt Phebe’s girls like to guess riddles, and I will 
send it to them. Mr. Augustus says that a soldier 
made it in a Rebel prison. Mr. Augustus is a tall 
boy, that knows a good deal, and wears spectacles, 
and that’s why we call him Mr. Augustus. 


RIDDLE 

I’m one-half a Bible command, 

That aye and forever shall stand; 

And, throughout our beautiful land, 

’Tis needed now to foil the traitorous band. 

I’m always around, — yet they say 
Too often I’m out of the way. 

Thereby leading astray; 

I’m decked in jewels fine and rich array. 

Although from my heart I am stirred, 

I can utter but one little word, 

And that very seldom is heard; 

My elder sister sometimes kept a bird. 


66 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

Reads the riddle clear to you? 

I am very near to you: 

Both very near and dear — to you, 

Yet kept in chains. Does that seem queer to you? 

That about being “ stirred from the heart ” is all 
true. So is that about being “ around” The “ Bi¬ 
ble command/’ is only in three words, or two words 
joined by “ and.” This word is the first half. But 
I mustn’t tell you too much. 

They are all dear. But some kinds are dearer 
than others. 

I wish my father would send me one. 

That about the bird is first-rate, though I never 
saw one of that kind of — I won’t say what I mean 
(Dorry says you mustn’t say what you mean when 
you tell riddles). But maybe you’ve seen one. 
They used to have them in old times. 

I’ve launched my boat. She’s the biggest one in 
school. Dorry broke a bottle upon her, and chris¬ 
tened her the General Grant. The boys gave 
three cheers when she touched water, and Benjie 
sent up his new kite. It’s a ripper of a kite with a 
great gilt star on it that’s got eight prongs. 



THE MASTER 


67 


My hat blew off, and I had to go in swimming 
after it. It is quite stiff. The master was walk¬ 
ing by, and stopped to see the launching. When he 
smiles, he looks just as pleasant as anything. 

He patted me on my cheek, and says he, “ You 
ought to have called her the Flying Billy” And 
then he walked on. 

“ What does ‘ Flying Billy ’ mean? ” says I. 

“ It means you,” said Dorry. “ And it means 
that you run fast, and that he likes you. If a boy 
can run fast, and knows his multiplication-table, 
and won’t lie, he likes him.” 

But how can such a great man like a small boy? 

From your affectionate grandchild, 

William Henry. 

P. S. When the boys laugh at me, I laugh, too. 

P. S. There’s a man here that’s got nine pup¬ 
pies. If I had some money I could buy one. The 
boys don’t plague me quite so much. I’m sorry 
you dropped off your spectacles down the well. I 
suppose they sunk. I’ve got a sneezing cold. 

W. H. 


68 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


About the spectacles, I may as well confess that 
I was the means of their being lost. 

One day Uncle Jacob came into the office hastily, 
and, with a look of distress, said to me very sol¬ 
emnly: 

“ Mr. Fry, if you can, I want you to leave every¬ 
thing, and ride out with me! ” 

“ Oh! what is the matter? ” I exclaimed. 

“ Why,” said he, “ ever since we sent out word 
about old clothes, they’ve been coming in so fast the 
rooms are all filled up, and we don’t know where to 
go! ” 

So what could I do but go? And, as it happened, 
I could “ leave everything ” just as well as not, and 
was glad to. 

The next three letters seem to have been sent at 
one time. Before they reached Grandmother she 
had worked herself into a perfect fever of anxiety. 

Owing to the rabbit affair, of which they contain 
the whole story, William Henry had not felt like 
writing, so that, even before his letter was begun, 
they at the farm were already looking for it to ar¬ 
rive. Then it took a longer time than he expected 
to finish up his account of the matter; and when at 
last the letter was sealed and directed, the boy who 
carried it to the post-office forgot his errand, and it 
hung in an overcoat pocket several days. No won¬ 
der, then, the old lady grew anxious. 

I was at the farm at the time they were looking 


NO LETTER 


69 


for the letters, and I really tried very hard to be 
entertaining; but not the funniest story I could 
tell about the funniest little roly-poly contraband 
in the hospital could excite more than a passing 
smile. 

Aunt Phebe gave me my charge before I went in. 

“ You must be lively,” said she. “ Be lively! 
Turn her thoughts off of Billy! That’s the way! 
Though I do feel worried,” she added. “ ’Tis a puz¬ 
zle why we don’t have letters. I’m afraid some¬ 
thing is the matter, or else it seems to me we should. 
He’s been very good about writing. If anything 
has happened to Billy, I don’t know what we should 
do. ’Twould come pretty hard to Grandmother. 
And I do have my fears! But ’twon’t do to let her 
know I worry about him. And you better be very 
lively! We all have to be! ” 

I observed that Mr. Carver, although he talked 
very calmly with his mother, and urged her to rest 
easy, was after all not so very much at ease himself. 
He sat by the window apparently reading a news¬ 
paper. But it was plain that he only wished Grand¬ 
mother to think he was reading; for he paid but lit¬ 
tle attention to the paper, and was constantly look¬ 
ing across the garden to see when Uncle Jacob 
should get back from the post-office; and the mo¬ 
ment Towser barked he folded his paper and went 
out. Grandmother put on her “ outdoor ” specta¬ 
cles, and stood at the window. When Mr. Carver 
returned she glanced rapidly over him with an ear- 


70 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


nest, beseeching look, which seemed to say that 
it was not possible but that somewhere about him, 
in some pocket, or in his hat, or shut up in his hand, 
there must be a letter. 

“ The mail was late,” Mr. Carver said; “ Uncle 
Jacob couldn’t wait, and had left the boy to fetch 
it.” 

Grandmother was setting the table. In her 
travels to and from the buttery she stopped often 
to glance up the road, and during meal-time her 
eyes were constantly turning to the windows. 

Presently Aunt Phebe came in. 

“ The boy didn’t bring any letters,” said she; 
“ but I’ve been thinking it over, and for my part 
I don’t think ’tis worth while to worry. No news 
is good news. Bad news travels fast. A thousand 
things might happen to keep a boy from writing. 
He might be out of paper, or out of stamps, or out of 
anything to write about, or might have lessons to 
learn, or be too full of play, or be kept after school, 
or might a good many things! ” 

“ You don’t suppose,” said Grandmother, “ that 
— you don’t think — it couldn’t be possible, could 
it, that Billy’s been punished and feels ashamed to 
tell it? ” 

“ Nonsense! ” said Aunt Phebe. “ Now don’t, 
Grandmother, I beg of you, get started off on that 
notion! Yesterday ’twas the measles. And day 
before ’twas being drowned, and now ’tis being pun¬ 
ished! ” 



THE NEXT MAIL 


71 


“ ’Twouldn’t be like William not to tell of it,” said 
Mr. Carver. 

“ Not a bit like him,” said Aunt Phebe. 

“ No,” said Grandmother, “ I don’t think it 
would. But you know when anybody gets to think¬ 
ing, they are apt to think of everything.” 

I told them there was a possibility of the letter 
being missent. And that idea reminded me of just 
such an anxious time we had once about little Silas. 

His letter went to a town of the same name in Ohio, 

< _ ' 

and was a long time reaching us. I made haste to 
tell this to Grandmother, and thought it comforted 
her a little. 

When I left the next morning, Mr. Carver fol¬ 
lowed me out and asked me to make inquiries in 
regard to the telegraphic communication with the 
Crooked Pond School, and to be in readiness to tele¬ 
graph ; for, in case no letter came that day, he should 
send me word to do so. 

But no word arrived, as the next mail brought the 
following letters, with their amusing illustrations. 

My Dear Grandmother: 

I suppose if I should tell you I had had a whip¬ 
ping you would feel sorry. Well, don’t feel sorry. 
I will begin at the beginning. 

We can’t go out evenings. But last Monday 
evening one of the teachers said I might go after my 


72 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


over jacket that I took off to play ball, and left hang¬ 
ing over a fence. It was a very light night. I had 
to go down a long lane to get where it was; and when 
I got there, it wasn’t there. The moon was shining 
bright as day. Old Gapper Skyblue lives down 
that lane. He raises rabbits. He keeps them in a 
hen-house. 

Now I will tell you what some of the great boys 
do sometimes. They steal eggs and roast them. 
There is a fireplace in Tom Cush’s room. Once 
they roasted a pullet. The owners have complained 
so that the master said he would flog the next boy 
that robbed a hen-house or an orchard, before the 
whole school. 

Now I will go on about my overjacket. While 
I was looking for it I heard a queer noise in the 
rabbit-house. So I jumped over. Then a boy 
popped out of the rabbit-house and ran. I knew 
him in a minute, for all he ran so fast, — Tom Cush. 

Now when he started to run, something dropped 
out of his hand. I went up to it, and ’twas a rabbit, 
a dead one, just killed; for when I stooped down 
and felt of it, it was warm. And while I was stoop- 



A MAN’S HAND 


73 


ing down, there came a great heavy hand down on 
my shoulder. It was a man’s great heavy hand. 

Gapper had set a man there to watch. He hol¬ 
lered into my ears, “ Now I’ve got you! ” I hol¬ 
lered, too, for he came sudden, without my hearing. 



“ You little thief! ” says he. 

“ I didn’t kill it,” says I. 

“ You little liar! ” says he. 

“ I’m not a liar,” says I. 

“ I’ll take you to the master,” says he. 

“ Take me where you want to,” says I. 

Then he pulled me along, and kept saying, “ Who 
did, if you didn’t? If you didn’t, who did? ” 

And he walked me straight up into the master’s 









74 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


room, without so much as giving a knock at the 
door. 

“ I’ve brought you a thief and a liar,” says he. 
Then he told where he found me, and what a bad 
boy I was. Then he went away, because the mas¬ 
ter wanted to talk with me all by himself. 

Now I didn’t want to tell tales of Tom, for it’s 
mean to tell tales. So all I could say was that I 
didn’t do it. 

The master looked sorry. Said he was afraid 
I had begun to go with bad boys. “ Didn’t I see 
you walking in the lane with Tom Cush yesterday? ” 
says he. I said I was helping him find his ball. 
And so I was. 

“ If you were with the boys who did this,” said he, 
“ or helped about it in any way, that’s just as bad.” 

I said I didn’t help them, or go with them. 

“ How came you there so late? ” says he. 

“ I went after my overjacket,” says I. 

“ And where is your overjacket? ” says he. 

I said I didn’t know. It wasn’t there. 

Then he said I might go to bed, and he would 
talk with me again in the morning. 


NEXT MORNING 


75 


When I got to our rooms, the boys were sound 
asleep. I crept into bed as still as a mouse. The 
moon shone in on me. I thought my eyes would 
never go to sleep again. I tried to think how much 
a flogging would hurt. Course, I knew ’twouldn’t 
be like one of your little whippings. I wasn’t so 
very much afraid of the hurt, though. But the 
name of being whipped, I was afraid of that, and 
the shame of it. Now I will tell you about the next 
morning, and how I was waked up. 

Your affectionate grandchild, 

My Dear Grandmother: 

I had to leave off and jump up and run to school 
without stopping to sign my name, for the bell rang. 
But, now school is done, I will write another letter 
to send with that, because you will want to know 
the end at the same time you do the beginning. 

It was little pebbles that waked me up the next 
morning, — little pebbles dropping down on my 
face. I looked up to find where they came from, 
and saw Tom Cush standing in the door. He 
was throwing them. He made signs that he wanted 


76 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


to tell me something. So I got up. And while 
I was getting up, I saw my overjacket on the back 
of a chair. I found out afterwards that Benjie 
brought it in, and forgot to tell me. 

Tom made signs for me to go down stairs with 
him. He wouldn’t let me put my shoes on. He 
had his in his hand, and I carried mine so. So we 
went through the long entries in our stocking-feet, 
and sat down on the doorstep to put our shoes on. 
Nobody else had got up. The sky was growing 
red. I never got up so early before, except one 
Fourth of July, when I didn’t go to bed, but only 
slept some with my head leaned down on a window- 
seat, and jumped up when I heard a gun go off. 
Tom carried me to a place a good way from the 
house. Our shoes got soaking wet with dew. 

Now I will tell you what he said to me. 

He asked me if I saw him anywhere the night 
before. I said I did. 

He asked me where I saw him. 

I said I saw him coming out of the hen-house, 
where Gapper Sky blue kept his rabbits. He asked 
me if I was sure, and I said I was sure. 


TOM CUSH 


77 


“ And did you tell the master? ” says he. 

I said, “ No.” 

“ Nor the boys? ” 

“ No.” 

Then he told me he had been turned away from 
one school on account of his bad actions, and he 
wouldn’t have his father hear of this for anything; 
and said that, if I wouldn’t tell, he would give me a 
four-bladed knife, and quite a large balloon, and 
show me how to send her up, and if I was flogged 
he would give me a good deal more, would give 
money, — would give two dollars. 

“ I don’t believe he’ll whip you,” says he, “ for 
he likes you. And if he does, he wouldn’t whip a 
small boy so hard as he would a big one.” 

I said a little whipping would hurt a little boy just 
as much as a great whipping would hurt a great 
boy. But I said I wouldn’t be mean enough to tell 
or to take pay for not telling. 

He didn’t say much mare. And we went to¬ 
wards home then. But before we came to the 
house, he turned off into another path. 

A little while after, I heard somebody walking 



78 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

behind me. I looked round, and there was the 
master. He’d been watching with a sick man all 
night. 

He asked me where I had been so early. I said I 
had been taking a walk. He asked who the boy 
was that had just left me. I said ’twas Tom Cush. 
He asked if I was willing to tell what we had been 
talking.about. I said I would rather not tell. 

Says he, “ It has a bad look, your being out with 
that boy so early, after what happened last night.” 

Then he asked me where I had found my over¬ 
jacket. I said, “ In my chamber, sir, on a chair- 
back.” 

“ And how came it there? ” says he. 

“ I don’t know, sir,” says I. 

And, Grandmother, I almost cried; for every¬ 
thing seemed going against me, to make me out a 
bad boy. I will tell the rest after supper. 

Your affectionate grandchild, 

William Henry. 

My Dear Grandmother: 

Now I will tell you what happened that after¬ 


noon. 


TOM CUSH 


79 


The school was about half done. 

The master gave three loud raps with his ruler. 

This made the room very still. 

He asked the other teachers to come up to the 
platform. And they did. 

Next, he waved his ruler, and said, “ Fold.” 

And we all folded our arms. 

It was so still that we could hear the clock tick. 

He told Tom Cush to close the windows and shut 
the blinds. 

Then he talked to us about stealing and telling 
lies. Said he didn’t like to punish any boy, but it 
must be done. He said he had reason to believe 
that the boy whose name he should call out was not 
honest, that he took other people’s things and told 
lies. 

Then he told the story, all that he knew about it, 
and said he hoped that all concerned in it would have 
honor enough to speak out and own it. 

Nobody said anything. 

Then the master said, “ William Henry, you may 
come to the platform.” 

I went up. 


80 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


Somebody ’way in the back part shouted out, 
“ Don’t believe it! ” 

“ Silence! ” said the master. And he thumped 
his ruler on the desk. 

Then he told me to take off my jacket, and fold it 
up. And I did. 

He told me to hand my collar and ribbon to a 
teacher. And I did. 

Then he laid down his ruler, and took his rod 
and bent it to see if it was limber. It wasn’t ex¬ 
actly a rod. It was the thing I told you about when 
I first came to this school. 

He tried it twice on the desk first. 

Then he took hold of my shoulder and turned my 
back round towards him. He said I had better 
bend down my head a little, and took hold of the 
neck of my shirt to keep me steady. I shut my 
teeth together tight. 

At that very minute Bubby Short cried out, 
“ Master! Master! Stop! Don’t! He didn’t 
do it! He didn’t kill it! I know who! I’ll tell! 
I will! I will! I don’t care what Tom Cush does! 
’Twas Tom Cush killed it! ” 


THREE CHEERS SI 

The master didn’t say one word. But he handed 
me my jacket. 

The boys all clapped and gave three cheers, and 
he let them. 

Then he said to me, whispering, “ Is this so, Wil¬ 
liam? ” And I said, low, “ Yes, sir.” 



Then he took hold of my hand and led me to my 
seat. And when I sat down he put his hand on my 
shoulder just as softly, — it made me remember the 
way my mother used to before she died, and, says he, 
“ My dear boy,” then stopped and began again, 
“ My dear boy,” and stopped again. If he’d been 
a boy I should have thought he was going to cry him- 













82 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

self. But of course a man wouldn’t. And what 

should he cry for? It wasn’t he that almost had a 

» 

whipping. At last he told me to come to his room 
after supper. Then Bubby Short was called up to 
the platform. 

Now I will tell you how Bubby Short found out 
about it. 

He sleeps in a little bed in a little bit of a room 
that lets out of Tom’s. ’Tisn’t much bigger than 
a closet. But it is just right for him. 

That morning when Tom got up so early 
and threw pebbles at me, Bubby Short had 
been keeping awake with the toothache. And 
he heard Tom telling another boy about the 
rabbit. 

He made believe sleep. But once, while Tom 
was dressing himself, he peeped out from under the 
bedquilt, with one eye, to see a black-and-blue spot, 
that Tom said he hit his head against a post and 
made, when he was running. 

But they caught him peeping out, and were 
dreadful mad because he heard, and said if he told 
one single word they would flog him. But he says 


BUBBY SHORT 


83 


he would have told before, if he had known it had 
been laid to me. 

Wasn’t he a nice little fellow to tell? 

Oh, I was so glad when the boys all clapped! 
And when we were let out, they came and shook 
hands with Bubby Short and me. Great boys and 
all. Mr. Augustus, and Dorry, and all. And the 
master told me how glad he was that he could keep 
on thinking me to be an honest boy. 

Now aren’t you glad you didn’t feel sorry? 

Your affectionate grandchild, 

William Henry. 

Grandmother’s Letter to William Henry, in reply . 

My Dear Little Boy: 

« 

Your poor old grandmother was so glad to get 
those letters, after such long waiting! 

My dear child, we were anxious, but now we are 
pleased. I was afraid you were down with the 
measles, for they’re about. Your aunt Phebe thinks 
you had ’em when you were a month old; but I 
know better. 


84 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


Your father was anxious himself at not hearing; 
though he didn’t show it any. But I could see it 
plain enough. As soon as he brought the letters in, 
I set a light in the window to let your aunt Phebe 
know she was wanted. She came running across 
the yard, all of a breeze. YY>u know how your aunt 
Phebe always comes running in. 

“ What is it? ” says she. “ Letters from Billy? 
I mistrusted ’twas letters from Billy. In his 
own handwriting? Must have had ’em pretty 
light. Measles commonly leave the eyes very 
bad.” 

But you know how your aunt Phebe goes run¬ 
ning on. Your father came in, and sat down in his 
rocking-chair, — your mother’s chair, dear. Your 
sister was sewing on her doll’s cloak by the lit¬ 
tle table. She sews remarkably well for a little 
girl. 

“ Now, Phebe,” says I, “ read loud, and do speak 
every word plain.” I put on my glasses, and drew 
close up, for she does speak her words so fast. I 

have to look her right in the face. 

* 

At the beginning, where you speak about being 



THE EFFECT AT HOME 8$ 

whipped, your father’s rocking-chair stopped stock 
still. You might have heard a pin drop. Georgi- 
ana said, “ O dear! ” and down dropped the doll’s 
cloak. “ Pshaw! ” said Aunt Phebe, “ Tisn’t very 
likely our Billy’s been whipped.” 

Then she read on and on, and not one of us spoke. 
Your father kept his arms folded up, and never 
raised his eyes. I had to look away, towards the 
last, for I couldn’t see through my glasses. Georgi- 
ana cried. And, when the end came, we all wiped 
our eyes. 

“ Now what’s the use,” said Aunt Phebe, “ for 
folks to cry before they’re hurt? ” 

“ But you almost cried yourself,” said Georgi- 
ana. “ Your voice was different, and your nose is 
red now.” And that was true. 

After your sister was in bed, and Aunt Phebe 
gone, your father says to me: “ Grandma, the boy’s 
like his mother.” And he took a walk around the 
place, and then went off to his bedroom without 
even opening his night’s paper. If ever a man set 
store by his boy, that man is your father. And, 
oh, Billy, if you had done anything mean, or dis- 


86 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


graced yourself in any way, what a dreadful blow 
’twould have been to us all! 

The measles come with a cough. The first thing 
is to drive ’em out. Get a nurse. That is, if you 
catch them. They’re a natural sickness, and one 
sensible old woman is better than half a dozen doc¬ 
tors. Saffron’s good to drive ’em out. 

Aunt Phebe is knitting you a comforter. As if 
she hadn’t family enough of her own to do for! 

From your loving 

Grandmother. 


I think this the proper place to insert the follow¬ 
ing letter from Dorry Baker to his sister. I am 
sorry we have so few of Dorry’s letters. Two very 
entertaining ones will be given presently, describ¬ 
ing a visit Dorry made to William Henry’s home. 
The two boys, as we shall see, soon after their ac¬ 
quaintance, grew to be remarkably good friends. 
Mr. Baker, Dorry’s father, hearing his son’s glowing 
accounts of William Henry’s family, took a little 
trip to Summer Sweeting Place on purpose to see 
them, and was so well pleased with Grandmother, 
Mr. Carver, Uncle Jacob, and the rest, as to suggest 
to his wife that they should buy some land in the 
vicinity, and turn farmers. He and Grandmother 


DORRY BAKER 


87 


had a very pleasant talk about their boys; and not 
long after, knowing, I suppose, that it would gratify 
the old lady, he sent her some of Dorry’s letters, 
that she might have the pleasure of reading for her¬ 
self what Dorry had written about her Billy, and 
about Billy’s people and Billy’s home. Perhaps, 
too, Mr. Baker was a little bit proud of the smart 
letters his son could write. 


Dorry’$ Letter to his Sister. 

Dear Sis: 

If mother’s real clever, I want you to ask her 
something right away. But if it’s baking-day, or 
washing-day, or company’s coming off, or preserves 
going on, or anything’s upset down below; or if she’s 
got a headache or a dressmaker, or anything else 
that’s bad, — then wait. 

I want you to ask her if I may bring home a boy 
to spend Saturday. Not a very big boy, — do very 
well to “ Philopene ” with you: won’t put her out a 
bit. 

If you don’t like him at first, you will afterwards. 
When he first came we used to plague him on ac¬ 
count of his looks. He’s got a furious head of hair, 


88 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


and freckles. But we don’t think at all about his 
looks now. If anything, we like his looks. 

He’s just as pleasant and gen’rous, and not a mean 
thing about him. I don’t believe he would tell a lie 
to save his life. I know he wouldn’t. He’s always 
willing to help everybody. And had just as lief give 
anything away as not. And when he plays, he plays 
fair. Some boys cheat to make their side beat. 
You don’t catch William Henry at any such mean 
business. All the boys believe every word he says. 
Teachers, too. 

I will tell you how he made me ashamed of my¬ 
self. Me and some other boys. 

One day he had a box come from home. ’Twas 
his birthday. It was full of good things. Says I 
to the boys, “ Now, maybe, if we hadn’t plagued 
him so, he would give us some of his goodies.” 

That very afternoon, when we had done playing, 
and ran up to brush the mud off our trousers, we 
found a table all spread out with a table-cloth that 
he had borrowed, and in the middle was a frosted 
cake with “ W. H.” on top done in red sugar. And 
close to that were some oranges, and a dish full of 


DORRY’S LETTER 


89 


nuts, arid as much as a pound of candy, and more figs 
than that, and four great cakes of maple-sugar, made 
on his father’s land, as big as small johnny-cakes, 
and another kind of cake. And doughnuts. 

“ Come, boys,” says he, “ help yourselves.” 

But not a boy stirred. 

I felt my face a-blushing like everything. Oh, 
we were all of us just ashamed as we could be! 
We didn’t dare go near the table. But he kept in¬ 
viting us, and at last began to pass them round. 

And I tell you the things were tip-top and more, 
too. Such cake! And doughnuts, that his cou¬ 
sin made! And tarts! You must learn how. 
But I don’t believe you ever could. Of course we 
had manners enough not to take as much as we 
wanted. I want to tell you some more things about 
him. But wait till I come. He’s most as old as 
you are, and is always laughing, the same as you 
are. 

Ask Mother what I told you. Take her at her 
cleverest, and don’t eat up all the sweet apples. 

From your brother, 

Dorry. 


90 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


P. S. Put some away in meal to mellow. Don’t 
mellow ’em with your knuckles. 

Mrs. Baker, I imagine, was not particularly fond 
of boys. She gave her permission, however, for 
Dorry to bring a “ muddy-shoed ” companion home 
with him, as we see by the following letter from Wil¬ 
liam Henry to his grandmother. 

A Letter from William Henry. 

My Dear Grandmother: 

Dorry asked his sister to ask his mother if he 
might ask me to go home with him. And she said 
yes; but to wait a week first, because the house was 
just got ready to have a great party, and she couldn’t 
stand two muddy-shoed boys. May I go? 

Tom Cush was sent home; but he didn’t go. His 
father lives in the same town that Dorry does. He 
has been here to look for him. 

I never went to make anybody a visit. I hope 
you will say yes. I should like to have some money. 
Everybody tells boys not to spend money; but if 
they knew how many things boys want, and every- 


GOOD ADVICE 


91 


thing tasted so good, I believe they would spend 
money themselves. Please write soon. 

From your affectionate grandchild, 

William Henry. 

Grandmother’s Second Letter. 

My Dear Boy: 

Do you have clothes enough on your bed? Ask 
for an extra blanket. I do hope you will take care 
of yourself. When the rain beats against the win¬ 
dows, I think, “ Now who will see that he stands at 
the fire and dries himself? ” And you’re very apt 
to hoarse up nights. We are willing you should go 
to see Dorry. Your uncle J. has been past his 
father’s place, and he says there’s been a pretty sum 
of money laid out there. Behave well. Wear your 
best clothes. Your aunt Phebe has bought a book 
for her girls that tells them how to behave. It is 
for boys, too, or for anybody. I shall give you a 
little advice, and mix some of the book in with it. 

Never interrupt. Some children are always put¬ 
ting themselves forward when grown people are 


92 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

talking. Put “ sir ” or “ ma’am ” to everything you 
say. Make a bow when introduced. If you don’t 
know how, try it at a looking-glass. Black your 
shoes, and toe out if you possibly can. I hope you 
know enough to say “ Thank you,” and when to 
say it. Take your hat off, without fail, and step 
softly, and wipe your feet. 

Be sure and have some woman look at you before 
you start, to see that you are all right. Behave 
properly at table. The best way will be to watch 
and see how others do. But don’t stare. There is 
a way of looking without seeming to look. A side¬ 
ways way. 

Anybody with common sense will soon learn how 
to act properly; and even if you should make a mis¬ 
take, when trying to do your best, it isn’t worth 
while to feel very much ashamed. Wrong actions 
are the ones to be ashamed of. And let me say now, 
once for all, never be ashamed because your father 
is a farmer and works with his hands. Your father’s 
a man to be proud of; he is kind to the poor; he is 
pleasant in his family; he is honest in his business; 
he reads high kind of books; he’s a kind, noble 


MORE ADVICE 


93 


Christian man; and Dorry’s father can’t be more 
than all this, let him own as much property as he 
may. 

I mention this because young folks are apt to 
think a great deal more of a man that has money. 

Your aunt Phebe wants to know if you won’t 
write home from Dorry’s because her Matilda wants 
a stamp from that post-office. If the colt brings a 
very good price, you may get a very good answer to 
your riddle. 

From your loving 

Grandmother. 

P. S. Take your overcoat on your arm. When 
you come away, bid good-by, and say that you have 
had a good time. If you have had, — not without. 

William Henry’s Reply. 

Dear Grandmother: 

I am here. The master let us off yesterday noon, 
and we got here before supper, and this is Saturday 
night, and I have minded all the things that you 
said. I got all ready and went down to the Two 



94 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


Betsys to let some woman look at me, as you wrote. 
They put on both their spectacles and looked me all 
over, and picked off some dirt-specks, and made 



me gallus up one leg of my trousers shorter, and 
make some bows, and then walk across the room 
slow. 

They thought I looked beautiful, only my hair 
was too long. Lame Betsy said she used to be 
the beater for cutting hair, and she tied her apron 
















































































THE HAIRCUT 


95 


round my throat, and brought a great pair of shears 
out, that she used to go a-tailoring with. The 
Other Betsy, she kept watch to see when both sides 
looked even. 

Lame Betsy tried very hard. First she stood off 
to look, and then she stood on again. She said 
her mother used to keep a quart-bowl on purpose 
to cut her boys’ hairs with; she clapped it over their 
heads, and then clipped all round by it even. The 
shears were jolly shears, only they couldn’t stop 
themselves easy, and the apron had been where snuff 
was, and made me sneeze in the wrong place. Says 
I, “ If you’ll only take off this apron, I’ll jump up 
and shake myself out even.” I’m so glad I’m a boy. 
Aprons are horrid. So are apron-strings, Dorry 
says. 

They gave me a few peppermints, and said to be 
sure not to run my head out and get it knocked off 
in the cars, and not to get out till we stopped going, 
and to beware of pickpockets. 

Oh, we did have a jolly ride in the cars! Do you 
think my father would let me be the boy that sells 
papers in the cars? I wish he would. I didn’t see 


96 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


any pickpockets. We got out two miles before we 
got there. I mean to the right station. For Dorry 
wanted to make his sister Maggie think we hadn’t 
come. 

We took a short cut through the fields. Not very 
short. And went through everything. My best 
clothes, too. But I guess ’twill all rub off. There 
were some boggy places. 

When we came out at Dorry’s house, it was in the 
back yard. I said to Dorry, “ There’s your mother 
on the doorstep. She looks clever.” 

Dorry said, “ She? She’s the cook. I’ll tell 
Mother of that. No, I won’t, neither.” 

I suppose he saw I’d rather he wouldn’t. The 
cook said everybody had gone out. Then Dorry 
took me into a jolly great room and left me. Three 
kinds of curtains to every window! What’s the 
use of that? Gilt spots on the paper, and gilt things 
hanging down from up above. A good many kinds 
of chairs. I was going to sit down, but they kept 
sinking in. Everything sinks in here. I tried 
three, and this made me laugh, for I seemed to my¬ 
self like the little girl that went to the bears’ house 


AT DORRY’S HOUSE 


97 


and tried their chairs, and their beds, and their 
bowls of milk. Then I came to a looking-glass big 
enough for the very biggest bear. I thought I would 
make some bows before it, as you said. I was afraid 
I couldn’t make a bow and toe out at the same time. 
Because it is hard to think up and down both at 
once. While I was trying to, I heard a little noise, 
I looked round, and — what do you think? Bears? 
Oh, no. Not bears. A queen and a princess, I 
thought. All over bright colors and feathers and 
shiny silks. The queen — that’s Dorry’s mother 
you know, — couldn’t think who I was, because they 
had been to the depot, and thought we hadn’t come. 
So she looked at me hard, and I suppose I was very 
muddy. And she said, “ Were you sent on an er¬ 
rand here? ” Before I could make up any answer, 
Dorry came in. He had some cake, and he passed 
it round with a very sober face. Then he intro¬ 
duced me, and I made quite a good bow, and said, 
“ Very well, I thank you, ma’am.” 

I tried to pull my feet behind me, and wished I was 
sitting down, for she kept looking towards them; 
and I wanted to sit down on the lounge, but I was 





98 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


afraid ’twouldn’t bear. She was quite glad to see 
Dorry. But didn’t hug him very hard. I know 
why. Because she had those good things on. 

Dorry’s grandmother lives here. She can’t bear 

» 

to hear a door slam. She wears her black silk 
dress every day. And her best cap, too. ’Tis a 
stunner of a cap. White as anything. And a good 
deal of white strings to it. Everything makes her 
head ache. I’d a good deal rather have you. 
When boys come nigh, she puts her hand out to keep 
them off. This is because she has nerves. Dorry 
says his mother has ’em sometimes. I like his 
father. Because he talks to me some. But he’s 
very tired. His office tires him. He isn’t a very 
big man. He doesn’t laugh any. If Maggie was 
a boy she’d be jolly. She’ll fly kites, or anything, 
if her mother isn’t looking. Her mother don’t seem 
a bit like Aunt Phebe. I don’t believe she could 
lift a tea-kettle. Not a real one. When she 
catches hold of her fork, she sticks her little finger 
right up in the air. She makes very pretty bows 
to the company. Sinks ’way down, almost out of 
sight. She gave us a dollar to spend; wasn’t she 


SILVER DISHES 


99 


clever? Dorry says she likes him tip-top. If he’ll 
only keep out of the way. 

I guess I’d rather live at our house. About every 
room in this house is too good for a boy. But I 
tell you they have tip-top things here. Great pic¬ 
tures and silver dishes! Now, I’ll tell you what I 
mean to do when I’m a man. I shall have a great 
nice house like this, and nice things in it. But the 
folks shall be like our folks. I shall have horses, and 
a good many silver dishes. And great pictures, and 
gilt books for children that come a-visiting. And 
you shall have a blue easy-chair, and sit down to rest. 

Now, maybe you’ll say, “ But, Billy, Billy, where 
are you going to get all these fine things? ” Oh, 
you silly grandmother! Don’t you remember your 
own saying that you wrote down? — “ What a man 
wants he can get, if he tries hard enough.” Or a 
boy, either, you said. I shall try hard enough. 
There’s more to write about. But I’m sleepy. I 
would tell you about Tom Cush’s father coming here, 
only my eyes can’t keep open. Isn’t it funny that 
when you are sleepy your eyes keep shutting up and 
your mouth keeps coming open? Please excuse the 


100 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


lines that go crooked. There’s another gape! I 
guess Aunt Phebe will be tired reading all this. I’m 
on her side. I mean about measles. I’d rather have 
’em when I was a month old. I suppose I was a 
month old once. Don’t seem as if ’twas the same 
one I am now. But if I do have ’em, — there I go 
gaping again, — if I catch ’em, and all the doctors 
do come, I’ll — O dear! There I go again. I do 
believe I’m asleep — I’ll — I’ll get some natural- 
born old woman to drive ’em out, as you said, and 
good night. 

William Henry. 


My Dear Grandmother: 

I am back again, and had a good time; but came 
back hungry. I’ll tell you why. The first time I 
sat down to table I felt bashful, and Dorry’s mother 
said a great deal about my having a small appetite, 
and afterwards I didn’t like to make her think it was 
a large one. 

I guess I behaved quite well at the table. But I 
couldn’t look the way you said. It made me feel 
squint-eyed. Once I almost laughed at table. The 





TOM CUSH’S FATHER 


101 


day they had roast duck, it smelt nice. I thought 
it wouldn’t go round, for they had company besides 
me; and I said, “ No, I thank you, ma’am.” Dorry 
whispered to me, “ You must be a goose not to love 
duck and that was when I almost laughed at ta¬ 
ble. His grandmother shook her head at him. 

Now I’ll tell about Tom Cush’s father. That 
Saturday, when we were eating dinner, somebody 
came to the front door, and inquired for us two, — 
Dorry and me. It was Tom Cush’s father. He 
wanted to ask us about Tom, and whether we knew 
anything about him. But we knew no more than 
he did. He talked some with us. The next eve¬ 
ning, — Sunday evening, — Tom Cush’s mother 
sent for Dorry and me to come and see her. His 
father came after us. She said they wanted to 
know more about what I wrote to you in those let¬ 
ters. 

Oh, I don’t want ever again to go where the folks 
qre so sober. The room was just as still as any¬ 
thing, not much light burning, and great curtains 
hanging way down, and she looked like a sick wo¬ 
man. Just as pale! Only sometimes she stood up 



102 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

and walked, and then sat down again, and leaned 
way forward, and asked a question, and looked into 
our faces so. We didn’t know what to do. Dorry 
talked more than I could. Tom’s father kept just 
as sober! He said to Dorry: “ It is true, then, that 
my boy wouldn’t own up to his actions? ” or some¬ 
thing like that. 

Dorry said, “ Yes, sir.” 

Tom’s father said, “ And he was willing to sit 
still and see another boy whipped in his place? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” Dorry said. But he didn’t say it very 
loud. 

Then they stopped asking questions, and not one 
of us spoke for ever so long. Oh, ’twas so still! 
At last Dorry said, just as softly, “ Can’t you find 
him anywhere? ” And then I said that I didn’t 
believe he was lost. 

Then Tom’s father got up from his chair and said, 
“ Lost? That’s not it. That’s not it. ’Tis his 
not being honorable! ’Tis his not being truej 
Lost? Why, he was lost before he left the school.” 
Says he: “ When he did a mean thing, then he lost 
himself. For he lost his truth. He lost his honor. 


i 


A MOTHERS EYES 


103 


There’s nothing left worth having when they are 
gone.” 

Oh, I never saw Dorry so sober as he was that 
night going home. And when we went to bed, he 
hardly spoke a word, and didn’t throw pillows, or 
anything. I shut my eyes up tight and thought 
about you all at home, and Aunt Phebe, and Aunt 
Phebe’s little Tommy, and about school, and about 
Bubby Short, and all the time Tom’s mother’s eyes 
kept looking at me just as they did; and when I was 
asleep I seemed back again in that lonesome room, 
and they two sitting there. 

From your affectionate grandchild, 

William Henry. 

P. S. I want to tell that when I was at Dorry’s 
I let a little vase fall down and break. I didn’t 
think it was so rotten. I felt sorry; but didn’t say 
so; I didn’t know how to say it very well. I wish 
grown-up folks would know that boys feel sorry 
very often when they don’t say so, and sometimes 
they think about doing right, too. And mean to, 
but don’t tell of it. Next time I shall tell about 
Bubby Short and me going to ride in Gapper’s don- 


104 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

key-cart. He’s going to lend it to us. I should 
like to buy them a new vase. 

W. H. 

P. S. Benjie’s had a letter, and one twin fell 
down-stairs. 

There is one sentence in the first paragraph of 
the following letter which reminds me of a very 
windy day, when I was staying at Summer Sweeting 
Place. 

In returning from a walk, by a short cut across 
the field, I met a boy who was running just about 
as fast as he could. 

Soon after I came to another and much smaller 
boy, who was not running at all, but was sitting flat 
upon the ground, under a tree, and crying with might 
and main. This smaller boy proved to be Tommy. 
On a branch of the tree, just out of his reach, hung 
a broom, towards which his weeping eyes were 
turned in despair. A paper of peanuts which I hap¬ 
pened to have soon quieted him, because, in order 
to crack them, he had to shut his mouth. At the 
first of it, however, he went on with his crying while 
picking out the meats, which so amused me that 
I was obliged to turn aside and laugh. 

It appeared that Tommy had been riding horse¬ 
back on his mother’s broom “ to see Billy,”'and 
when he had made believe get there, he wanted to 
hitch his horse. A larger boy, out of mischief, or 


ROSY’S LAMB 


105 


rather in mischief, bent down a branch of the tree, 
telling Tommy there was a tiptop thing to tie lip 
to. He helped Tommy to tie the horse to the 
branch, and then ran off across the field. It is very 
plain what happened when the branch sprang back 
to its place. 

I unhitched the animal , and then Tommy and I 
mounted it, he behind me, and away we cantered to 
the house, my amazing gallops causing the little 
chap to laugh as loudly as he had cried. 

My Dear Grandmother: 

Please to tell my sister I am much obliged to her 
for picking up that old iron for me. But that old 
rusty fire-shovel handle, I guess that will not do 
to put in again. For my father said, the last time, 
that he had bought that old fire-shovel handle half 
a dozen times. But Aunt Phebe’s Tommy, he pulls 
it out again to ride horseback on. 

I know a little girl just about as big as my sister, 
named Rosy. Maybe that is not her name. 
Maybe it is, because her face is so rosy. She had a 
lamb. And she’s lost it. It ate out of her hand, 
and it followed her. It was a pet lamb. But it’s 
lost. Gapper came up to inquire about it. Mr. 
Augustus wrote a notice and nailed it on to the 


106 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


Liberty Pole, and then Dorry chalked out a white 
lamb on black pasteboard, and painted a blue rib¬ 
bon around its neck, and hung that up there too. 

Gapper let Bubby Short and me have his donkey- 
cart to go to ride in. He kicked up when we licked 
him, and broke something. But a man came by and 
mended it. So we didn’t get back till after dark. 
But the master didn’t say anything after we told 
the reason why. Did you ever see a ghost? Do 
you believe they can whistle? I’ll tell you what 
I ask such a question for. 

There is an old house, and part of it is torn down, 
and nobody lives in it. It is built close to where 
the woods begin. The boys say there is a ghost in 
it. I’ll tell you why. They say that if anybody 
goes by there whistling, something inside of that 
house whistles the same tune. Dorry says it’s a 
jolly old ghost. Mr. Augustus thinks ’tis all very 
silly. Now I’ll tell you something. 

The night Bubby Short and I were coming back 
from taking a ride in Gapper’s donkey-cart, we tried 
it. We didn’t dare to lick him again, for fear he 
would kick up, so we rode just as slow! —and it 



THE GHOST 


107 


was a lonesome road, but the moon was shining 
bright. 

Says Bubby Short, “ Do you believe that’s the 
honeymoon? ” 

“ No,” says I. “ That’s what shines when a man 
is married to his wife.” 

“ Are you scared of ghosts? ” said Bubby Short. 

“ Can’t tell till I see one,” says I. 

“ How far off do you suppose they can see a fel¬ 
low? ” says he. 

Says I, “ I don’t know. They can see best in the 
dark.” 

“ Do you think they’d hurt a fellow? ” says he. 

“ Maybe,” says I. “ There’s the old house.” 

“ I know it,” says he; “ I’ve been looking at it.” 

Says I, “ Are you scared to whistle? ” 

“ Scared! No,” says he. “Let’s whistle, I 
say.” 

“ Well,” says I, “ you whistle first,” 

“ No,” says he, “ you whistle first.” 

“ Let him whistle first,” says I. 

“ He won’t do it. Ghosts never whistle first,” 
says he. 


108 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


I asked him who said that, and he said ’twas 
Dorry. 

Then I said, “ Let’s whistle together.” 

So we waited till we almost got past, and then 
whistled “ Yankee Doodle.” And, grandmother, 
it did, — it whistled it. 

Bubby Short whispered, “ Lick him a little.” 

Then I whispered back, “ ’Twon’t do to. If I do, 
he won’t go any.” 

But in a minute he began to go faster of his own 
accord. He heard somebody ahead calling. It was 
Gapper, coming to see what the matter was that 
kept us so late. Now what do you think about it? 

From your affectionate 

William Henry. 

P. S. My boots leak. Shall I get them tapped, 
or get a new pair, or throw them away, or else keep 
the legs to make new boots of? 

W. H. 


My Dear Grandmother: 

Sometimes Dorry writes stories in his letters for 
his sister, just as he tells them to her, talking, at 



GAPPER’S WHIP 


109 


home. Now I’ll write one for my sister, and I’ll 
call it by a name. I’ll call it 

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM 

Once there was a little boy named Billy, and Gap- 
per lent him his donkey to go ride. That’s me, you 
know. Next day Gapper came and said, “ You 
boys lost my whip.” Now I remembered having the 
whip when we crept in among the bushes, — for we 
got sight of a woodchuck, and came near finding his 
hole. So when school was out at noon, I asked 
leave to put some bread and meat in my pocket, in¬ 
stead of eating any dinner, and go to look for Gap- 
per’s whip. And he said I might. ’Twas two miles 
off. But I found it. And I dug for a good deal of 
saxifax-root. And picked lots of boxberry-plums. 

And I never noticed how the sky looked, till I 
heard a noise something like thunder. It was very 
much like thunder. Almost just like it. I thought 
it was thunder. Only it sounded a great ways off. 
I was walking along slow, snapping my whip and 
eating my dinner, for I thought I wouldn’t hurry 
for thunder, when something hard dropped down 



110 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

close to me. Then another dropped — and then 
another. And they kept dropping. I picked one 
up and found they were hailstones, and they were 
bigger than bullets. 

It kept growing dark, and the hailstones came 
thicker, and hit me in the face. Then they began 
to pour right down, and I ran. They beat upon 
me just like a driving storm all of sharp stones. The 
horses and cows cut across the fields like mad. The 
horses flung up their heads. I was almost to that 
old house and ran for that, and kicked the door 
through to get in, for I thought I should be killed 
with the hail. The shingles off the roof were fly¬ 
ing about; and when I got inside, ’twas awful. I 
thought to be sure the roof would be beat in. Such 
a noise! It sounded just exactly as if a hundred 
cartloads of stones were being tipped up on to the 
roof. And then the window-glass! It was worse 
than being out doors, for the window-glass was fly¬ 
ing criss-cross about the room, like fury, all mixed 
up with the hail. I crouched down all in a bunch 
and put my arms over my head, and so tried to save 
myself. But then I spied a closet door a crack 


THE HAIL-STORM 


111 


open, and I jumped in there. And there I sat all 
bent over with my hands up to my ears, and thought, 
Oh, what would become of me if the old house should 
go? And now the strangest part is coming. You 
see ’twas a pretty deep closet — School-bell! I 
didn’t think ’twas half time for that to ding. I’ll 
tell the rest next time. Should you care if I brought 
home Dorry to make a visit? He wants to bad. 
’Twould be jolly if Bubby Short went, too. 

From your affectionate grandchild, 

William Henry. 


My Dear Grandmother: 

Everybody’s been setting glass. Counting the 
house and the schoolhouse, and the panes set over 
the barn door, and four squares in the hen-house, 
we had to set four hundred and twenty-three 
squares. The expressman has brought loads and 
loads. All the great boys helped set. We slept one 
night with bedquilts and rugs hung up to the win¬ 
dows. The master tried to shut his blind in the 
storm, but the hail drove him in, and he couldn’t 
even shut down his window again. A rich man has 


112 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


given to the Two Betsys better windows than they 

had before. Now I will tell about that closet. 

« 

When it began to grow stiller, I took my hands 
down from my ears, and one hand when it came 
down touched something soft. Quite soft and 
warm. I jumped off from it in a hurry. Then I 
heard a kind of bleating noise, and a little faint 
“ ba’a, ba’a.” But now comes the very strangest 
part. Farther back in the closet I heard somebody 
move, somebody step. I was scared, and gave the 
door a push, to let the light in. Now who do you 
think was there? Aunt Phebe must stop reading 
and let you guess. But maybe you’re reading your¬ 
self. Then stop and guess. ’Twasn’t a ghost. 
’Twasn’t a man. ’Twasn’t a woman. ’Twas Tom 
Cush! and Rosy’s lamb! 

Says he, “ William Henry! ” Says I, “ Tom! ” 
Then we walked out into the room, and oh, what a 
sight. Says I, “ I thought ’twas going to be the end 
of the old house.” 

Says Tom, “ I thought ’twas going to be the end 
of the world.” 

Tn the corners the hailstones were heaped up in 


TOM CUSH AGAIN 


113 


great banks. You might have shovelled up bar¬ 
relfuls. Most of them were the size of bird’s eggs. 
But some were bigger. Then we looked outdoors. 
The ground was all white, and drifts in every cor¬ 
nering place, and the leaves stripped off the trees. 
Then we looked at one another, and Tom was just 
as pale as anything. He leaned against the wall, 
and I guessed he was crying. To see such a great 
boy crying seemed most as bad as the hailstones. 
Maybe he didn’t cry. When he turned his head 
round again, says he, “ Billy, I’m sick, and what 
shall I do? ” 

“ Go home,” says I. 

“ No,” says he, “ I won’t go home. And if you 

/ 

let ’em know, I’ll — ” And then he picked up 
Gapper’s whip, — “ I’ll flog you.” 

“ Flog away,” says I; “ maybe I shall, and maybe 
I sha’n’t.” 

He dropped the whip down, and says he, “ Billy, 
I sha’n’t ever touch you. But they mustn’t know 
till I’m gone to sea.” 

I asked him when he was going. And he told 
me all about it. 



114 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


When he was sent away from school, he went into 
town and inquired about the wharves for a chance 
to go, and "got one, and came back to get some things 
he left hid in the old house, and to wait till ’twas 
time to go. He sold his watch, and bought a great 
bag full of hard bread and cheese and cakes. 

He was mad at Gapper for setting a man to watch, 
and so he took Rosy’s lamb. He was going to kill 
it. And then skin it. But he couldn’t do it. It 
licked his hand, and looked up so sorryful, he 
couldn’t do it. And when he cut his foot — he cut 
it chopping something. That’s why he stayed there 
so long. And he was the ghost that whistled. He 
knew the fellows wouldn’t go in to see what it was 
that whistled. And he ate up ’most all his things, 
and tied a string to the lamb, and let it out nights 
to eat grass, and then pulled it in again. 

I wouldn’t have stayed there so for anything. 
He went into town three times, nights, to get victuals 
to eat. I don’t see what he wants to be such a kind 
of a boy for. He says he means to go to sea, and 
if ever he’s good, he’s going home. I told him 
about his father and mother, and he walked while 


COOLER WEATHER 115 

I was talking, and kept his back towards me. I 
asked him what ailed him, and he said ’twas partly 
cutting him, and partly sleeping cold nights, and 
partly the crackers and cheese. I gave him the 
rest of my meat, and he was glad enough. 

He said he was ashamed to go home. 

Now I have got to the end of another sheet of 
paper. I wish I hadn’t begun to tell my sister this 
story. It takes so long. And I want every minute 
of the time to play in. For ’tis getting a little cooler, 
and a fellow can stand it to run some. The master 
says it’s good weather for studying. Dorry says he 
never saw any weather yet good enough for study¬ 
ing. I shall write a very short letter next time, to 
tell the rest of it. 

From your affectionate grandchild, 

William Henry. 

P. S. I forgot to put this letter in the office. I 
guess I will not write any more letters till I go home. 
I was going to tell more, but I can do it better talk¬ 
ing. I went to see Tom Cush the next day, and he 
had gone. Rosy’s got her lamb back again. But 
her flower-garden was killed by the hail. Not one 


116 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


leaf left. She found her lamb on the doorstep, wait¬ 
ing to get in. 

We have next a letter from Aunt Phebe, a dear, 
good-hearted woman, who took almost a mother’s 
interest in William Henry. Indeed, I have heard 
her remark, that she hardly knew any difference 
between her feelings for him and for her own chil¬ 
dren. 

Some of her letters will be found to contain good 
advice, given in a very amusing way. 

Letter from Aunt Phebe. 

Dear Billy: 

You rogue, you! I meant to have written be- 
bore. You’ve frightened us all to pieces with your 
ghost that wasn’t a ghost, and your whipping that 
wasn’t a whipping, and your measles that you didn’t 
have. Grandmother may talk, but she’s losing her 
memory. You were red as a beet with ’em. As 
if I didn’t carry you about all night and go to sleep 
walking! 

Grandmother says, “ Yes, indeed! bring Dorry, 
and let him stay a week if he wants to.” Bless her 


AN INVITATION 


117 


soul! She’ll always keep her welcome warm, so 
never mind her memory. And Bubby Short, too. 
Pray bring Bubby Short. I want to see his black 
eyes shine. Don’t Benjie want to come? I’ve got 
beds enough, and girls enough to work, and a great 
batch of poor mince-pies that I want eaten up. 
Don’t see how I came to make such a miss in my 
pies this baking. Your uncle J. thinks I skinched 
on the plums. There never was such a man for 
plums. I do believe if they were put into his bis¬ 
cuits he’d think he’d got no more than his rights. 

Your uncle J. says, “ Tell the boys to come on. 
I’ve got apples to gather, and husking to do.” 
They’d better bring some old clothes to wear. This 
is such a tearing place. I’ve put my Tommy into 
jacket and trousers. He used to hitch his clothes 
upon every rail. Such a climber! I don’t know 
what that boy’ll be when he grows up. 

I send you a good warm comforter, knit in stripes; 
and all the family are knit into it, especially 

i 

Tommy. The pink stripes are his good-boy days, 
the black ones are his naughty actions. I showed 
him where I knit ’em in. That clouded gray and 


118 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


black stripe is for my two great girls quarreling 
together about whose work ’twas to do some little 
trifle. I told ’em they should be knit in, big as 
they are, if they couldn’t behave and be accommo¬ 
dating. That bright red stripe is for Hannah Jane’s 
school report, all perfect. That blue stripe is for 
your sister Georgiana when she made a sheet. It 
matches her eyes as near as I could get the yarn. 
My blue dye is weak this fall. Indigo is high. 
Your uncle J. says it’s on account of the Rebs feel¬ 
ing so blue. That gray stripe, dotted with yel¬ 
low, means a funny crying spell Tommy had at ta¬ 
ble. I came home, and there he sat in his high chair, 
with his two hands on the arms of it, his mouth wide 
open, eyes shut, and the tears streaming down, mak¬ 
ing the dolefullest noise, — “ O-oh, a-ah; o-oh, 
a-ah.” Lucy Maria said he’d been going on in that 
strain almost half an hour, because we didn’t have 
mince-meat for supper. That green stripe is for the 
day we all took the hay-cart and went to ride in the 
woods. The orange-colored one is for the box of 
oranges your uncle J. fetched home. “ A waste of 
money,” says I. “ Please the children,” says he; 



AUNT PHEBE’S KNITTING 


119 


“ and the peel will save spice.” Makes me laugh 
when your uncle J. sets out to save. My girls and 
Tommy have got the very best of fathers, only they 
don’t realize it. But young folks can’t realize. 
The pale rose-colored stripe is for the travelling 
doctor’s curing your grandmother’s rheumatics, and 
promising she never should have another touch of 
’em if she was careful. The dark red stripe is for 
the red cow’s getting choked to death with a tur¬ 
nip. She was a prime butter cow. Any man but 
your uncle J. would look sober for a month about 
it. But he says, “ Oh, there’s butter enough in the 
world, Phebe. And the calf will soon be a cow 
on its own hook.” That’s your uncle J. 

The plain dark purple stripe is for my Matilda’s 
speaking disrepectfully to Grandmother. She was 
sorry enough afterwards, but I told her it should go 
in. That bright yellow stripe is for the day your 
father went to market and got such a great price for 
his colt. The bright fringe, mixed colors, is for us 
all in both houses, when we got news of your coming 
home, and felt so glad. There’s a stitch dropped 
in one place. That may go for a tear-drop, — a 



120 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


tear of mine, dear, if you please. Do you think we 
grown-up women, we jolly, busy women, never shed 
tears? Oh, but we do sometimes, in an out-of-the- 
way corner, or when the children are all gone to 
school, or everybody is in bed. Bitterer tears they 
are, Billy, than boys’ tears. One more stripe, that 
plain white one in the centre, is for the little Tommy 
that died. I couldn’t bear to leave him out, Billy. 
He had such little loving ways. You don’t remem¬ 
ber him. 

% 

There’s your uncle J.’s whistle. He always whis¬ 
tles when he gets to the bars, to let me know it’s 
time to begin to take up dinner. 

From your loving 

Aunt Phebe. 

I will insert here two of Dorry Baker’s letters to 
his sister. When they were written Dorry and 
Bubby Short were making William Henry a visit. 

Dorry to his Sister. 

Dear Sis: 

Who’s been giving you an inch, that you take so 
many “ l’s ” ? Or is Father putting an “ L ” to his 


DORRY ON A VISIT 


121 


house, or some great “ LL. D.” been dining there, 
or what is the matter, that about every “ 1 ” in your 
letter comes double? I wouldn’t spell “ painful ” 
with two “ Vs ” if the pain was ever so bad. But 
I know. You are thinking about Billy and the good 
times we are having. Aunt Phebe says you might 
have come, too, just as well as not; for her family 
is so big, three or four more don’t make a mite of 
difference. 

We got here last night. Billy’s grandmother’s a 
brick. She took Billy right in her arms, and I do 
believe she cried for being glad, behind her specta¬ 
cles. His sister is full as pretty as you. Billy 
brought her a round comb. Aunt Phebe’s little 
Tommy’s as fat as butter. He sat and sucked his 
thumb and stared, till Billy held out a whistle to 
him, and then he walked up and took it, as sober 
as a judge. 

“ And I’ve brought you something, Grand¬ 
mother,” says Billy. 

He went out and brought in a bandbox tied up. 
I wondered, coming in the cars, what he had got 
tied up in that bandbox. He out with his jack- 


122 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


knife, and cut the strings, and took out — have you 
guessed yet? Of course you haven’t, — took out 
a new cap like Grandma’s. He stuck his fist in 
in, and turned it round and round, to let her see 
it. 



“ Now sit down,” says he, “ and we’ll try it on.” 
She wouldn’t, but he made her. 

“ Come here, Dorry,” says he, “ and see which is 
the front side of this.” 


* 





























GRANDMOTHER’S CAP 


123 


When her old cap was pulled off, there was her 
gray hair all soft and crinkly. He got the cap 
part way on. 

“You tip it down too much/’ says I. 

“ We’ll turn it round/’ says he. 

“ ’Tis upside down/’ said Billy’s father. 

“ Now ’tis one-sided/’ says Uncle J., “ like the 
col’t blinders.” 

“ ’Twas never meant for my head/’ says Grand¬ 
mother. 

“ Send for Phebe/’ says Uncle J. 

But “ Phebe ” was coming. There was a great 
chattering outside, and the door opened, and in came 
Aunt Phebe, laughing, and her three great girls 
laughing too, with their red cheeks, and their great 
braids of hair tied up in red bow-knots of ribbon. 
And they all went to kissing Billy. 

i 

And then says Aunt Phebe, “ What in the world 
are you doing to your grandmother? A regular 
milliner’s cap, if I breathe! Well done, Grand¬ 
mother! Here, let me give it a twist. It’s hind 
side before. What do boys know? or men either? 
What are all these kinds of strings for? ” 


124 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


“ The great ones to hang down, and the little ones 
to tie up,” says Billy. 

The girls stood by to pick the bows apart, and 
fuzz up the ruffles where they were smashed in; and 
Billy’s father and Uncle Jacob, they both sat and 
laughed. 

Grandmother couldn’t help herself, but she kept 
saying, “ Now, Phebe! now, girls! now, Billy! ” 

“ And now, Grandmother! ” says Aunt Phebe. 
“ There! fold your hands together. Don’t lean 
back hard, ’twill jam easy. Now see, girls! Isn’t 
she a beauty? ” And Maggie, I do believe she’s 
the prettiest grandmother there is going. Her face 
is just as round and smiling! 

“ Now sit still, Grandmother,” said Aunt Phebe. 
And she winked to the girls, and they whisked two 
tables up together, spread on the cloth, set on the 

i 

dishes; then out into the entry, and brought in 
great loaves of plum-cake, and pies and doughnuts, 
and set out the table, — all done while you’d be ty¬ 
ing your shoe. Then they set a row of lights along 
the middle, and we all sat round, — Grandmother 
at the head, and Aunt Phebe’s little Tommy in his 




UNCLE JACOB 


125 


high chair; and I’ll tell you what, if these are poor 
mince pies, I hope I shall never see any good ones. 

“ Why didn’t you have some fried eggs? ” said 
Uncle Jacob. 

“ Now did anybody ever hear the like? ” said 
Aunt Phebe. “ Fried eggs! when they’re shedding 
their feathers, and it takes seventy-six fowls to lay 
a dozen, and every egg is worth its weight in cur¬ 
rency! Better ask why we don’t have cranberry 
sauce! ” 

“ There! ” says Uncle J. “ I declare, if I didn’t 
forget that errand, after all! ” 

“ When I told you to keep saying over ‘ Cran¬ 
berries, cranberries,’ all the way going along! ” says 
Aunt Phebe. 

“ They would ’a’ set my teeth on edge before I got 
to Ne’miah’s corner,” said Uncle J. “ The very 
thoughts of ’em is enough. Lucy Maria, please to 
pass that frosted cake. I declare, I’m sorry I for¬ 
got that errand.” 

For all we were so hungry, there was a great 
deal left, and I was glad to see it going into Billy’s 
buttery. Billy says it’s just like his aunt Phebe 


126 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


to come to supper, and make that an excuse to bring 
enough to last a week, to save Grandmother steps. 

I do like to stay where folks are joily. They keep 

me a-laughing; and as for Bubby Short, his little 

% 

black eyes have settled themselves into a twinkle, 
and there they stay. I never had such a good time 
in my life. 

From your same old brother, 

Dorry. 

P. S. We have got good times enough planned 
out to last a month. Uncle J. says we may have his 
old horse, and Young Gray, and Dobbin, and the 
cow, too, if we want, to ride horseback on, or tackle 
up into anything we can find, from a hay-cart to a 
wheelbarrow. I shall want to write, but sha’n’t. 
There’ll be no time. When I get home, I’ll talk a 
week. 

Love to all inquiring friends. 

Dorry to his Sister. 

Dear Sis: 

Oh, we’ve hurrahed and hurrahed and hurrahed 
ourselves hoarse! Such a bully time! You’d bet- 


MORE OF DORRY’S VISIT 


127 


ter believe the old horses went some! And that 
hay-cart went rattle and bump, rattle and thump,— 
seemed as if we should jolt to pieces! But I’ve 
counted myself all over, and believe I’m all here! 
Bubby Short’s throat is so sore that all he can do is 
to lie flat on the floor and wink his eyes. You see 
we cheered at every house, and they came running 
to their windows, and some cheered back again, and 
some waved and some laughed, and all of them 
stared But part of the way was through the 
woods. 

This morning Billy and Bubby Short and I went 
over to Aunt Phebe’s of an errand, to borrow a cup 
of dough. I wish Mother could see how her stove 
shines! And while we were sitting down there, 
having some fun with Aunt Phebe’s little Tommy, 
Uncle Jacob came in and said, “ Mother, let’s go 
somewhere.” 

She said, “ Thank you! thank you! we shall be 
very happy to accept your invitation. Girls, your 
father has given us an invitation! Boys, he means 
you, too! ” 

“ But you can’t go, — can you? ” Uncle Jacob 



128 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


cried out, and made believe he didn’t know what to 
make of it. Oh, he’s such a droll man! “ I thought 
you couldn’t leave the ironing,” says he. 

“ Oh, yes, we can! ” Hannah Jane said; and “ Oh, 
yes, we can! ” they all cried out. 

Aunt Phebe said it would be entirely convenient, 
and told her girls to shake out the sprinkled clothes 
to dry. 

“ Oh, now,” said Uncle Jacob, “ who’d have 
thought of your saying ‘ yes.’ I expected you 
couldn’t leave.” 

Then they kept on talking and laughing. Oh, 
they are all so funny here! Uncle Jacob tried to 
get off without going; but at last he said, “ Well, 
boys, we must catch Old Major.” 

That’s the old gray horse, you know. And we 
were long enough about it. For, just as we got him 
into a corner, he’d up heels, and away he’d go. And 
once he slapped his tail right in my face. But after 
a while we got him into the barn. 

Then pretty soon Uncle Jacob put on a long face, 
and looked very sober, and put his head in at the 
back kitchen door, and said he guessed we should 


A RIDE IN A HAY-CART 


129 


have to give up going, after all, for the mate to Old 
Major had got to be shod, and the blacksmith had 
gone away. 

“ Harness in the colt, then,” Aunt Phebe said. 
“ No matter about their matching, if we only get 
there! ” 

That colt is about twenty years old. He’s black, 
and short, and takes little stubby steps; and he’s 
got a shaggy mane, that goes flop, flop, flop, every 
step he takes. But Old Major is bony, and has a 
long neck, like the nose of a tunnel. Such a span 
as they made! What would my mother say to see 
that span! 

They were harnessed in to the hay-cart. A hay- 
cart is a long cart that has stakes stuck in all round 
it. We put boards across for benches. Aunt 
Phebe brought out a whole armful of quite small 
flags, that they had Independence Day, and we tied 
one to the end of every stake. 

Such a jolly time as we did have getting aboard! 
First, all the baskets and pails full of cake and pies 
were stowed away under the benches, and jugs of 
water, and bottles of milk, and a hatchet, and some 


130 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

boiled eggs, and apples and pears. Then Uncle 
called out, “ Come! where is everybody? Tumble 
in! tumble in! Where’s little Tommy? ” 

Then we began to look about and to call 
“ Tommy! ” “ Tommy! ” “ Tommy! ” At last 

Bubby Short said, “ There he is, up there! ” We 
all looked up, and saw Tommy’s face part way 
through a broken square of glass — I mean where 
the glass was broken out. He said he couldn’t 
“ turn down, betause the roosted was on his feets.” 
You see, he’d got his feet tangled up in Lucy Maria’s 
worsteds. 

“ O dear! ” Lucy Maria said; “ all that shaded 
pink! ” 

When they brought him down, Uncle Jacob 
looked very sober, and said, “ Why, Tommy! Did 
you get into all that shaded pink! ” 

“ Didn’t get in all of it,” said Tommy. Then he 
told us he was taking down the “ gimmerlut to 
blower a hole with.” Next he began to cry for 
his new hat; and when he got his new hat, he began 
to cry for a posy to be stuck in it. That little fel¬ 
low never will go anywhere without a flower stuck 



THE OUTFIT 


131 


in his hat. Aunt Phebe says his grandmother be¬ 
gan that notion when her damask rosebush was in 
bloom. 

After we were all aboard, Uncle Jacob brought 
out the teakettle, and slung it on behind with a rope. 
He said maybe Mother would want a cup of tea. 
Then they laughed at him, for he is the tea-drinker 
himself. Next he brought out a long pan. 

“ Now that’s my cookie-pan! ” Aunt Phebe said. 
“ You don’t cook clams in my cookie-pan! ” 

He made believe he was terribly afraid of Aunt 
Phebe, and trotted back with it just like a little boy, 
and then came bringing out an old sheet-iron fire- 
board. 

“ Is this anybody’s cookie-pan? ” said he, then 
stowed it away in the bottom of the cart. Bubby 
Short wanted to know what that was for. 

“ That’s for the clams,” Uncle Jacob said. 

But we couldn’t tell whether he meant so. We 
never can tell whether Uncle Jacob is funning or not. 
I haven’t told you yet where we were bound. We 
were bound to the shore. That’s about six miles 
off. The last thing that Uncle Jacob brought out 


132 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


was a stick that had strips of paper tied to the end of 
it. 

“ That’s my fly-flapper! ” Aunt Phebe said. 
“ What are you going to do with my fly-flapper? ” 

He said that was to brush the snarls off little 
Tommy’s face. Tommy is a tip-top little chap; 
but he’s apt to make a fuss. Sometimes he teased 
to drive, and then he teased for a drink, and then for 
a sugar-cracker, and then to sit with Matilda, and 
then with Hannah Jane. And, every time he 
fretted, Uncle Jacob would take out the fly-flapper, 
and play brush the snarls off his face, and say, 
“ There they go! Pick ’em up! pick ’em up! ” 
And that would set Tommy a-laughing. Tommy 
tumbled out once, the back end of the cart. Billy 
was driving, and he whipped up quick, and they 
started ahead, and sent Tommy out the back end, 
all in a heap. But first he stood on his head, for 
’twas quite a sandy place. I drove part of the way, 
and so did Bubby Short. We didn’t hurrah any 
going. Some men that we met would laugh and 
call out, “ What’ll you take for your span? ” And 
sometimes boys would turn round, and laugh, and 


DIGGING CLAMS 


i 


133 


holler out, “ How are you, teakettle? ” I think a 
hay-cart is the best thing to ride in that ever was. 
Just as we got through the woods, we looked round 
and saw Billy’s father coming, bringing Billy’s 
grandmother in a horse and chaise. Then we all 
clapped. For they said they guessed they couldn’t 
come. 

When we got to the shore, the horses had to be 
hitched to the cart, for there wasn’t a tree there, 
nor so much as a stump. Uncle Jacob called to us 
to come help him dig the clams. Billy carried the 
clam-digger, and I carried the bucket. Isn’t it 
funny that clams live in the mud? How do you 
suppose they move round? Do you suppose they 
know anything? Uncle Jacob struck his clam-dig¬ 
ger in everywhere he saw holes in the mud; and as 
fast as he uncovered the clams we picked them up, 
and soon got the bucket full. 

Then he told us to run like lamplighters along 
the shore, and pick up sticks and bits of boards. 
“ Bring them where you see a smoke rising,” says 
he. 

Oh, such loads as we got, and split up the big 


134 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


pieces with the hatchet! Uncle Jacob had fixed 
some stones in a good way, and put his iron fire- 
board on top, and made a fire underneath. Then 
he spread his clams on the fireboard to roast. Oh, 
I tell you, Sis, you never tasted of anything so good 
in your life as clams roasted on a fireboard! 

And he put some stones together in another place, 
and set on the teakettle, and made a fire under it, 
— he said that was so they could make a cup of tea 
for Mother. 

Tommy kept helping making the fire, and once 
he joggled the teakettle over. Aunt Phebe and the 
girls sat on the rocks, the side where the wind 
wouldn’t blow the smoke in their eyes. But Billy’s 
grandmother had a soft seat made of seaweed and 
the chaise cushions, and shawls all over her, and 
Billy’s father read things out of the newspaper to 
her. He said they two were invited guests, and 
mustn’t work. 

It took the girls ever so long to cut up the cakes 
and pies, and butter the biscuits. I know I never 
was so hungry before! The clams were passed 
round, piping hot, in box covers, and tin-pail covers, 


THE CLAM ROAST 


135 


and some had to have shingles. You’d better be¬ 
lieve those clams tasted good! Then all the other 
things were passed round. Oh, I don’t believe any 
other woman can make things as good as Aunt 
Phebe’s! Georgiana had a frosted plum-cake 
baked in a saucer; and, every time she moved her 
seat, Uncle Jacob would go, too, and sit close up to 
her, and say how much he liked Georgie, she was the 
best little girl that ever was, — a great deal bet¬ 
ter than Aunt Phebe’s girls. Then Georgiana 
would say, “ Oh, I know you! You want my frosted 
cake! ” Then Uncle Jacob would pucker his lips 
together, and shut up his eyes, and shake his head 
so solemn! He keeps everybody a-laughing, even 
Billy’s grandmother. He was just as clever to her! 
picked out the best mug there was to put her tea 
in, — Aunt Phebe don’t carry her good dishes, they 
get broken so, — and shucked out the clams for her 
in a saucer. When you get this letter, I guess you’ll 
get a good long one. After dinner we scattered 
about the shore. ’Twas fun to see the crabs and 
frys and things the tide had left in the little pools 
of water. And I found lots of blanc-mange moss. 



136 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


We boys ran ever so far along shore, and went in 
swimming. The water wasn’t very cold. 

When it was time to go home, Uncle Jacob 
drummed loud on the six-quart pail, and waved his 
handkerchief. And the wind took it out of his 
hand, and blew it off on the water. Billy said, 
“ Now the fishes can have a pocket-handkerchief.” 
And that made little Tommy laugh. Tommy had 
been in wading without his trousers being rolled up, 
and got ’em sopping wet. Just as we were going 
to leave, a sail-boat went past, quite near the shore, 
with a party on board. We gave them three cheers, 
and they gave us three cheers and a tiger; then they 
waved, and then we waved. Uncle Jacob hadn’t 
any pocket-handkerchief, so he caught Georgi- 
ana up in his arms, with her white sunbonnet on, 
and waved her; then the people in the boat clapped. 

Oh, we had a jolly time coming home! In the 
woods we all got out and rested the horses, and I 
came pretty near catching a little striped squirrel. 
I should give it to you if I had. Did you ever see 
any live fences? Fences that branch out, and have 
leaves grow on them? Now I suppose you don’t 


LIVE FENCES 


137 


believe that! But it’s true, for I’ve seen them. 
In the woods, if they want to fence off a piece, they 
don’t go to work and build a fence, but they bend 
down young trees, or the branches of trees, and fas¬ 
ten them to the next, and so on as far as they want 
the fence to go. And these trees and branches keep 
growing, and look so funny, something like giants 
with their legs and arms all twisted about. And 
every spring they leaf out the same as other trees, 
and that makes a real live fence. My squirrel was 
on that kind of fence. I wish it was my squirrel. 
He had a striped back. I got close up to him, that 
is, I got quite close up, — near enough to see his 
eyes. What things they are to run! 

Coming home we sang songs, and laughed; and 
every time we came to a house, we cheered all to¬ 
gether, and waved our flags. Everybody came to 
their windows to look, for there isn’t much travelling 
on that road. Oh, I’m so out of breath, and so 
hoarse! But I’m sorry we’ve got home, I wish 
it had been ten miles. Now I hear them laughing 
and clapping over at Aunt Phebe’s. What can 
they be doing? Now Uncle Jacob is calling us to 


138 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


come over. Bubby Short’s jumped up. He says 
his throat feels better now. I wonder what Uncle 
Jacob wants of us. We must go and see. Good 
by, Sis. This letter is from your 

Brother Dorry. 


I remember what they were clapping about. It 
happened that I came out from the city that day. 
The weather was so fine, I felt as if I must take one 
more look at the country, before winter came and 
spoiled every bright leaf and flower. I think the 
flowers and leaves seem very precious in the fall, 
when we know frost is waiting to kill them. 

It was quite a disappointment to find the people 
all gone, and I was glad enough when at last the 
old hay-cart came rattling down the lane. Such 
a jolly set as they were! I jumped them out at the 
back of the cart. 

That little Tommy was always such a funny chap. 
Just like his father for all the world. When the 
girls took their things off, he got himself into an old 
sack, and then tied on one of his mother’s checked 
aprons, and began to parade round. When Lucy 
Maria saw him, she took him upstairs and put more 
things on him, and dressed him up for Mother 
Goose. I don’t know when I’ve seen anything so 
droll. They put skirts on him, till they made him 
look like a little fat old woman. He had a black 


“FATHER” GOOSE 


139 


silk handkerchief pinned over his shoulders, and a 
ruffle round his neck, and an old-fashioned, high- 
crowned nightcap on. Then spectacles. They put 
a peaked piece of dough on the end of his nose, to 
make it look like a hooked nose, and then set him 
down in the arm-chair. He kept sober as a judge. 
Bubby Short laughed till he tumbled down and 
rolled himself across the floor. Lucy Maria sent 
us out of the room to see something in the yard, and 
when we came back, there was a little old man with 
his hat on, and a cane, sitting opposite Mother 
Goose. He was made of a stuffed-out overcoat, 
' trousers with sticks of wood in them, and boots. 
“ That is Father Goose,” Lucy Maria said. Then 
Bubby Short had to tumble down again; and this 
time he rolled ’way through the entry, out on the 
doorstep! 

Then came such a pleasant evening! Aunt Phebe 
said ’twas a pity for Grandmother to go to getting 
supper, they might as well all come over. Where 
anybody had to boil the teakettle and set the table, 
half a dozen more or less for supper didn’t matter 
much. 

So we all ate supper together, and it seemed to 
me I never did get into such a jolly set! Uncle 
Jacob and Aunt Phebe were so funny that we could 
hardly eat. And in the evening— But ’tis no 
use. If I begin to tell, and tell all I want to, there 
won’t be any room left for the letters. 


140 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


A Letter from Bnbby Short. 

Dear Billy: 

My mother is all the one that I ever wrote a letter 
to before. So excuse poor writing, and this pen 
isn’t a very good pen to write with, I bet. I am very 
sorry that you can’t come back quite yet. I hope 
that it won’t be a fever that you are going to have. 
Does your grandma think that ’tis going to be a 
fever? Do you take bitter medicine? I never 
had a fever. I take little pills every time I have 
anything. My mother likes little pills best now. 
But she used to make me take bitter stuff. Once 
she put it in my mouth and I wouldn’t swallow it 
down. Then she pinched my nose together and it 
made me swallow it down. Once I ate up all the 
little pills out of the bottle, and she was very scared 
about it. It wasn’t very full. But the doctor said 
that it wouldn’t hurt me any if I did eat them. How 
many presents did you have? I had five. Dorry 
says he hopes that it won’t be a slow fever that you 
are going to have if you do have any fever, for he 
wants you to hurry and come back. Some new fel- 


BILLY SICK AT HOME 


141 


lows have come. One is a tip-top one. And one 
good “ pitcher.” I hope you will come back very 
soon, ’cause I like you very much. Do you know 
who ’tis writing? I am that one all you fellers call 

Bubby Short. 


As may be gathered from the foregoing letter, 
William Henry did not go back to school with the 
rest. He was taken ill just at the close of vacation, 
and remained at home until spring. Grandmother 
said it was such a comfort that it didn’t happen 
away. And it seemed to me that this thought really 
made her enjoy his being sick at home. 

Indeed, the people at Summer Sweeting Place 
seemed ready to get enjoyment from everything, 
even from gruel, which is usually considered flat. 
I passed a day there at a time when William Henry 
was subsisting on this very simple but wholesome 
food. Aunt Phebe and Uncle Jacob came in to 
take tea at Grandmother’s. The old lady was bring¬ 
ing out her nice things to set on the table, when 
Aunt Phebe spoke suddenly, I suppose seeing a hun¬ 
gry look in Billy’s eyes. She said: 

“ Now, Grandmother, I wouldn’t bring those 
out. Let’s have a gruel supper, and all fare alike! 
We’ll make it in different ways, — milk porridge, 
oatmeal, corn-starch, — and I think ’twill be a pleas¬ 
ant change.” 



142 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


“ Gruel is very nourishing, well made/’ said 
Grandmother; “ but what will Mr. Fry say? ” 

“ Mr. Fry will say/’ I answered, “ that milk por¬ 
ridge, with Boston crackers, is a dish fit for a king.” 

“ I’m afraid Jacob won’t think he’s been to sup¬ 
per,” said Grandmother. 

“ Oh, yes,” said Uncle Jacob, “ I’ll think I have, 
at any rate. But I like mine the way the man in the 
moon did his, or part of the way.” 

“ Yes,” said Aunt Phebe, “ I understand! The 
last part — the 4 plum ’ part! ” 

“ Oh, don’t all eat gruel for me,” said Billy. 
“ Course I sha’n’t be a baby, and cry for things! ” 
But Aunt Phebe seemed resolved to develop the 
gruel idea to its utmost. She made all kinds, — 
Indian meal, oatmeal, corn-starch, flour, mixed 
meals, wheat; made it sweetened, and spiced with 
plums, and plain. One kind, that she called “ thick¬ 
ened milk,” was delicious. “ Course ” we had one 
cup of tea, and bread and butter, and I can truly 
say that I have eaten many a worse supper than a 
“ gruel supper.” 

William Henry’s Letter to Dorry. 

Dear Dorry: 

I’m just as hungry as anything, now, about all 
the time. My grandmother says she’s so glad to 
see me eat again; and so am I glad to eat myself. 



BILLY WRITES TO DORRY 


143 


Things taste better than they did before. Maybe 
I shall come back to school again pretty soon, my 
father says; but my grandmother guesses not very, 
because she thinks I should have a relapse if I did. 
A relapse is to get sick when you’re getting well; 
and, if I should get sick again, oh, what should I do! 
for I want to go outdoors. If they’d only let me 
go out, I’d saw wood all day, or anything. There 
isn’t much fun in being sick, I tell you, Dorry; but 
getting well, oh, that’s the thing! I tell you get¬ 
ting well’s jolly! I have very good things sent to 



me about every day, and when I want to make mo¬ 
lasses candy my grandmother says yes every time, 
if she isn’t frying anything in the spider herself; 
and then I wait and whistle to my sister’s canary- 
bird, or else look out the window. But she tells 
me to stand a yard back, because she says cold 














144 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


comes in the window-cracks: and my uncle Jacob 
he took the yardstick one day, and measured a yard, 
and put a chalk mark there, where my toes must 
come to, he said. If I hold the yardstick a foot and 
a half up from the floor, my sister’s kitty can jump 
over it tip-top. My sister has made a Red-Riding- 



Hood cloak for her kitty, and a muff to put her fore 
paws in, and takes her out. 

Yesterday Uncle Jacob came into the house and 
said he had brought a carriage to carry me over to 
Aunt Phebe’s; and when I looked out it wasn’t any¬ 
thing but a wheelbarrow. My grandmother said I 
must wrap up, for ’twas the first time; so she put two 
overcoats on me, and my father’s long stockings 



















GETTING WELL 


145 


over my shoes and stockings, and a good many com¬ 
forters, and then a great shawl over my head so 
I needn’t breathe the air; and ’twas about as bad 
as to stay in. Uncle Jacob asked her if there was 
a Billy in that bundle, when he saw it. “ Hello, in 
there! ” says he. “ Hello, out there! ” says I. 
Then he took me up in his arms, and carried me out, 
and doubled me up, and put me down in the wheel¬ 
barrow, and threw the buffalo over me; but one leg 
got undoubled, and fell out, so I had to drag my foot 
’most all the way. Aunt Phebe undid me, and set 
me close to the fire; and Lucy Maria and the rest of 
them brought me story-books and picture-papers; 
and Tommy, he kept round me all the time, making 
me whittle him out little boats out of a shingle, and 
we had some fun sailing ’em in a milk-pan. Aunt 
Phebe had chicken broth for dinner, and I had a very 
good appetite. She let me look into all her closets 
and boxes, and let me open all her drawers. But I 
had to have a little white blanket pinned on when I 
went round, because she was afraid her room wasn’t 
kept so warm as my grandmother’s. Soon as Un¬ 
cle Jacob came in and saw that little white blanket 


146 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


he began to laugh. “ So Aunt Phebe has got out 
the signal of distress,” says he. He calls that blan- 
. ket the “ signal of distress/’ because when any of 
them don’t feel well, or have the toothache or any¬ 
thing, she puts it on them. She says he shall have 
to wear it some time, and I guess he’ll look funny, 
he’s so tall, with it on. The fellers played base¬ 
ball close to Aunt Phebe’s garden. I tell you 
I shall be glad enough to get outdoors. I tell you, 
it isn’t much fun to look out the window and see ’em 
play ball. But Uncle Jacob says if the ball hit me 
’twould knock me over now. Aunt Phebe was just 
as clever, and let me whittle right on the floor, and 
didn’t care a mite. And we made corn-balls. But 
the best fun was finding things, when I was rum¬ 
maging. I found some pictures in an old trunk 
that she said I might have, and I want you to give 
them to Bubby Short to put in the Panorama he 
said he was going to make. He said the price to 
see it would be two cents. They are true ones, for 
they are about Aunt Phebe’s little Tommy. One 
day, when he was a good deal smaller feller than he 
is now, he went out when it had done raining one 


LITTLE TOMMY 


147 


day, and the wind blew hard, and he found an old 
umbrella, and did just what is in the pictures. The 
school-teacher that boarded there, oh, she could 
draw cows and pigs and anything; and she drew 
these pictures, and wrote about them underneath. 

I wish you would write me a letter, and tell Benjie 
to and Bubby Short, 

From your affectionate friend, 

William Henry. 

P. S. What are you fellers playing now? 

Thinking the school-teacher’s pictures might 
please other little Tommys, I have taken some pains 
to procure them for insertion here. Little “ fel¬ 
lers ” usually are fond of carrying umbrellas, — 
large size preferred. Nothing suited Tommy bet¬ 
ter than marching off to school of a rainy day with 
one up full spread, provided he could hold it. His 
cousin Myra once took an old umbrella and cut it 
down into a small one, by chopping off the ends of 
the sticks, supposing he would be delighted with it. 
But no, he wanted a “ man's one ” 



148 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


TOMMY ON HIS TRAVELS 

Tommy sets forth upon his travels around the 
house, taking with him his whip. 



At the first corner he picks up an umbrella. A 
larger boy opens the umbrella, and shows him the 
























































































































TOMMY’S TRAVELS 


149 


way to hold it. Being an old umbrella, it shuts 
down again. But Tommy still keeps on in his way. 
At the second corner a gust of wind takes down 



the umbrella, and blows his capes over his head. 
He pushes on, however, whip in hand, dragging the 
umbrella behind him. 

























































150 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


On turning the third corner a hen runs between 
his legs, and throws him down in the mud. 



He is taken inside, stripped and washed, and left 
sitting upon the floor in his knit shirt, waiting for 
clean clothes. He can reach the handle of the mo¬ 
lasses-jug. He does reach the handle, and tips 
over the jug. His mother finds him eating molasses 
off the floor with his forefinger. Tommy looks up 
with a sweet smile. 





































































































BACK AT SCHOOL 


151 


William Henry to his Grandmother. 

My Dear Grandmother: 

I’ve been here three days now. I came safe all 
the way, but that glass vial you put that medicine 
into, down in the corner of the trunk, broke, and 



some white stockings down there, they soaked it all 
up; but I sha’n’t have to take it now, and no matter, 
I guess, for I feel well, all but my legs feeling weak 
so I can’t run hardly any. When I got here, the 
boys were playing ball; but they all ran to shake 
hands, and slapped my shoulders so they almost 
slapped me down, and hollered out, “ How are you, 





















152 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

Billy? ” “ How fares ye? ” “ Welcome back! ” 

“ Got well? ” “ Good for you, Billy! ” Gus Beals 

— he’s the great tall one we call “ Mr. Augustus ” 

— he called out, “ How are you, red-top? ” And 
then Dorry called out to him, “ How are you, hay- 
pole? ” Dorry and Bubby Short want me to tell 
you to thank Aunt Phebe for their doughnuts, and 



you, too, for that molasses candy. The candy got 
soft, and the paper jammed itself all into the candy, 
but Bubby Short says he loves paper when it has 
molasses candy all over it. I gave some of the 
things to Benjie. Something hurt me all the way 
coming, in the toe of my boot; and when I got here I 
looked, and ’twas a five-cent piece right in the toe! 
I know who ’twas! ’Twas Uncle Jacob when he 
made believe look to see if that boot-top wasn’t 
made of mighty poor leather. I went to spend it 
























OLD WONDER BOY 153 

yesterday, down to the Two Betsys’ shop. Lame 
Betsy called me a poor little dear, and was just go¬ 
ing to kiss me, but I twisted my face round. I’m 
too big for all that now, I guess. She looked for 
something to give me, and was just going to give 
me a stick of candy; but the other Betsy said ’twas 
no use to give little boys candy, for they’d only swal¬ 
low it right down, so she gave me a row of pins, for 
she said pins were proper handy things when your 
buttons ripped off. Just when I was coming back 

from the Two Betsys’ shop I met Gapper Skyblue. 

♦ 

He goes about selling cakes now. A good many 
boys were round him, in a hurry to buy first, and 
all you could hear was, “ Here, Gapper! ” “ This 
way, Gapper! ” “ You know me, Gapper! ” 
“ Me, me, me! ” One boy — he’s a new boy — 
spoke up loud and said, “ Mr Skyblue, please attend 
to me, if you please, for I have five pennies to 
spend! ” He came from Jersey. The fellers call 
him “ Old Wonder Boy,” because he brags and tells 
such big stories. But now, just as soon as he be¬ 
gins to tell, Dorry begins, too, and always tells the 
biggest, — makes them up, you know. Oh, I tell 





154 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

you, Dorry gives it to him good! You’d die a- 
laughing to hear Dorry, and so do all the fellers. 
W. B., — that’s what we call Old Wonder Boy 
sometimes, — W stands for Wonder, and B stands 
for Boy, — he says cents are not cents; says they 
are pennies, for the Jersey folks call them pennies, 
and he guesses they know. He says he gets his 
double-handful of pennies to spend every day down 
in Jersey. But Bubby Short says he knows that’s 
a whopper, for he knows there wouldn’t anybody’s 
mother give them their double-handful of pennies 
to spend every day, nor cents, either, nor their 
father, either. And then Dorry told Old Wonder 
Boy that he supposed it took his double-handful of 
pennies to buy a roll of lozenges down in Jersey. 
Then W. B. said that our lozenges were all flour and 
water, but down in Jersey they were clear sugar, and 
just as plenty as huckleberries. Dorry said he 
didn’t believe any huckleberries grew out there, or 
if they did, they’d be nothing but red ones, for the 
ground was red out in Jersey. But W. B. said no 
matter if the ground was red, the huckleberries were 
just as black as Yankee huckleberries, and blacker, 




DORRY BAKER 


155 


too, and three times bigger, and ten times thicker. 
Said he picked twenty quarts one day. 

Dorry said, “ Poh, that wasn’t much of a pick! ” 
Says he, “ Now I’ll tell you a huckleberry story 
that’s worth something.” Then all the boys be¬ 
gan to hit elbows, for they knew Dorry would make 
up some funny thing. Says he: “ I went a huckle- 
berrying once to Wakonok Swamp, and I carried a 
fourteen-quart tin pail, and a great covered basket, 
besides a good many quart and pint things. You’d 
better believe they hung thick in that swamp! I 
found a thick spot, and I slung my fourteen-quart 
tin pail round my waist, and picked with both hands, 
and ate off the bushes with my mouth all the while. 
I got all my things full without stirring two yards 
from the spot, and then I didn’t know what to do. 
But I’ll tell you what I did. I took off my jacket, 
and cut my fishing-line, and tied up the bottom ends 
of my jacket sleeves and picked them both full. 
And then I didn’t know what to do next. But I’ll 
tell you what I did. I took off my overalls, and 
tied up the bottoms of their legs, and picked 
them so full you wouldn’t know but there was a 


156 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

boy standing up in ’em! ” Then the boys all 
clapped. 

“ Well,” Old Wonder Boy said, “ how did you get 
them home? ” 

“ Oh, got them home easy enough,” Dorry said. 
“ First I put the overalls over my shoulders, like a 
boy going pussy-back. I slung all the quart and 
pint things round my waist, and hung the covered 
basket on one arm, and took the fourteen-quart tin 
pail in that same hand. Then I tied my jacket to 
the end of my fishing-pole, and held it up straight in 
my other hand like — like a flag in a dead calm! ” 

Oh, you ought to ’ve seen the boys, — how they 
winked at one another and puffed out their cheeks; 
and some of ’em rolled over and over down hill to 
keep from laughing! Bubby Short got behind the 
fence, and put his face between two bars, and called 
out, “ S — e — double 1! ” But Dorry says they 
don’t know what a “ s — e — double 1 ” is down in 
Jersey. But I don’t believe that W. B. believes 
Dorry’s stories; for I looked him in the face, and he 
had a mighty sly look when he asked Dorry how it 
was he got his huckleberries home. 







» 


MORE OF DORRY 157 

To-day they got a-talking about potatoes. Old 
Wonder Boy said that down in Jersey they grow so 
big you have to pry ’em up out of the hill, and it 
don’t take much more than two to make a peck. 
Dorry told him that down in Maine you could stand 
on top of the potato-hills and look all round the 
country, they were so high; and he asked W. B. 
how they planted ’em in Jersey, with their eyes up 
or down? He said he didn’t know which way they 
did turn their eyes. Then Dorry told him the 
Yankees always planted potatoes eyes up, so they 
could see which way to grow. Said he planted a hill 
of potatoes in his father’s garden, last summer, with 
their eyes all down, and waited and waited, but 
they didn’t come up. And when he had waited 
a spell longer, he raked off the top of that hill of 
potatoes, and all he saw was some roots sticking 
up. And he began to dig down. And he kept 
digging. Followed their stems. But he never got 
to the potato-tops; and says he, “ I never did get to 
those potato-tops! ” Oh, you ought to ’ve heard 
the boys. 

Old Wonder Boy wanted to know where Dorry 


158 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

thought they’d gone to. Dorry thought to himself 
a minute, and looked just as sober, and then says he, 
just like a school-teacher, “ The earth, in the mid¬ 
dle, is afire. I think when they got deep enough 
to feel the warm, they guessed ’twas the sun, and so 
kept heading that way.” 

Is the world afire in the middle? Dorry told me 
that part of his story was really true. How Uncle 
Jacob would laugh to sit down and hear Dorry and 
Old Wonder Boy tell about whales. W. B. calls 
’em ‘ wales ’. His uncle is a ship-captain, he says, 
and once he saw a wale, and the wale was making 
for his ship, and it chased ’em. And, no matter 
how they steered, that wale would chase. And by 
and by, in a calm day, he got under the vessel and 
boosted her up out of water, when all the crew gave 
a yell,*—such a horrid yell that the wale let ’em 
down so sudden that the waves splashed up to the 
tops of the masts, and they thought they were all 
drowned. 

“ Oh, poh! ” Dorry cried out. “ My uncle was 
a regular whaler, and went a-whaling for his liv¬ 
ing. And once he was cruising about the whaling- 



THE WHALER UNCLE 


159 


grounds, and ’twas in a place where the days were 
so short that the nights lasted almost all day. 
And they got chased by a whale. And he kept 
chasing them. Night and day. And there came 
up a gale of wind that lasted three days and nights; 
and the ship went like lightning, night and day, the 
whale after them. And, when the wind went down, 
the whale was so tuckered that he couldn’t swim a 
stroke. So he floated. Then the cap’n sang out 
to ’em to lower a boat. And they did. And the 
cap’n got in and took a couple of his men to row him. 
The whale was rather longer than a liberty-pole. 
About as long as a liberty-pole and a half. He was 
asleep, and they steered for the tail end. A whale’s 
head is about as big as the Two Betsys’ shop, and 
’tis filled with clear oil, without any trying out. 
The cap’n landed on the whale’s tail, and went along 
up on tiptoe, and the men rowed the boat along¬ 
side, and kept even with him; and, when he got 
towards her ears, he took off his shoes, and threw 
’em to the men to catch. After a while he got to the 
tip-top of her head. Now I’ll tell you what he had 
in his hand. He had a great junk of cable as big 


160 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


round as the trunk of a tree, and not quite a yard 
long. In one end of it there was a point of a har¬ 
poon stuck in, and the other end of it was lighted. 
He told the men to stand ready. Then he took hold 
of the cable with both hands, and with one mighty 
blow he stuck that pointed end deep in the whale’s 
head, and then gave one jump into the boat, and 
he cried out to the men, ‘ Row! row for your lives! 
To the tail end! If you want to live, row! ’ And 
before that whale could turn round they were safe 
■ aboard the ship! But now I’ll tell you the best part 
of the whole story. They didn’t have any more 
long dark nights after ‘that. They kept throwing 
over bait to keep her chasing, and the great lamp 
blazed, and as fast as the oil got hot it tried out more 
blubber, and that whale burned as long as there was 
a bit of the inside of him left. Flared up, and 
lighted up the sea, and drew the fishes, and they 
drew more whales; and they got deep loaded, and 
might have loaded twenty more ships. And when 
they left they took a couple in tow, — of whales, — 
and knocked out their teeth for ivory, and then sold 
their carcasses to an empty whaler.” 


FORTUNES TOLD 


161 


Dorry says some parts of this story are true. But 
he didn’t say which parts. Said I must look in 
the whale-book and find out. 

Your affectionate grandchild, 

William Henry. 



.P. S. I wish you would please to send me a sil¬ 
ver three-cent piece or five-cent. Two squaws 
have got a tent a little way off, and the boys are 
going to have their fortunes taken. But you have 
to cross the squaws’ hands with silver. 


W. H. 















162 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


Georgiana’s Letter to William Henry. 

My Dear Brother Billy: 

Oh, Billy, my pretty, darling little bird is dead! 
My kitty did it, and oh, I don’t know what I shall 
do, for I love my kitty if she did kill my birdie; but 
I don’t forget about it, and I keep thinking of my 
birdie every time my kitty comes in the room. I 
was putting some seeds in the glass, and my birdie 
looked so cunning; and I held a lump of white sugar 
in my lips, and let him peck it. And while I was 
thinking what a dear little bird he was, I forgot he 
could fly out; but he could, for the door was open, 
and he flew to the window. I didn’t think any¬ 
thing about kitty. It flew up to that bracket you 
made, and then it went away up in the corner just 
as high as it could, on a wooden peg that was there. 
I didn’t know what made it flutter its wings and 
tremble so, but Grandmother pointed her finger 
down to the corner, on the floor, and there was my 
kitty stretching out and looking up at my bird. 
And that was what made poor birdie tremble 
so. And it dropped right down. Before we could 


GEORGIANA’S LETTER 


163 


run across to catch kitty, he dropped right down into 
her mouth. I never thought she could get him. I 
didn’t know what made Grandmother hurry. I 
didn’t know that kitties could charm birds, but they 
do. She didn’t have him a minute in her teeth, 
and I thought it couldn’t be dead. But, oh, Billy, 
my dear birdie never breathed again! I warmed 
him in my hands, and tried to make him stir his 
wings, but he never breathed again. Now the tears 
are coming again. I thought I wasn’t going to cry 
any more. But they come themselves; when I don’t 
know it, they come; and oh, it was such a good 
birdie! When I came home from school, I used to 
run to the cage, and he would sing to meet me. And 
I put chickweed over his cage. 

Grandmother has put away that empty cage now. 
She’s sorry, too. Did you think a grandmother 
would be sorry about a little bird as that? But 
she’d rather give a good deal. When she put the 
plates on the table, and rattled spoons, he used to 
sing louder and louder. And in the morning he 
used to wake me up, singing away so loud! Now, 
when I first wake up, I listen. But oh, it is so still 


164 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


now! Then in a minute I remember all about it. 
Sometimes kitty jumps up on the bed, and puts 
her nose close down, and purrs. But I say, “ No, 
kitty. Get down. You killed little birdie. I don’t 
want to see you.” But she don’t know what I mean. 
She rubs her head on my face, and purrs loud, and 
wants me to stroke her back, and don’t seem as if 
she had been bad. She used to be such a dear little 
kitty. And so she is. She’s pretty as a pigeon. 
Aunt Phebe says she never saw such a pretty little 
gray and white kitty as she is. I was going to have 
her drowned. But then I should cry for kitty, too. 
Then I should think how she looked all drowned, 
down at the bottom, just the same way I do now 
how my birdie looked when it couldn’t stir its little 
wings, and its eyes couldn’t move. My father says 
that kitty didn’t know any better. I hope so. I 
took off that pretty chain she had round her neck. 
But Grandmother thinks I had better put on again. 
Aunt Phebe’s little Tommy says, “ Don’t kye, Dor- 
die, I’ll bung dat tat. I’ll take a tick and bung 
dat tat! ” He calls me Dordie. I guess I rather 
have kitty alive than let her be drowned, don’t you? 


GEORGIANA’S CANARY 165 

Grandmother wants you not to catch cold and be 
sick. 

From your affectionate sister, 

Georgiana. 

P. S. Grandmother showed me how to write this 
letter. 

A caged bird is never a very interesting object 
to me. But this little canary of Georgie’s was really 
a beautiful creature, and very intelligent. They 
used to think that he listened for her step at noon 
and night; for no sooner was it heard in the entry 
than he peeped out with his little bright eyes, and 
tuned up, and sang away, as if to say, “ Glad! glad! 
glad you’ve come! glad you’ve come! ” 

Then she would go to the cage and talk to him, 
and let him take sugar from her mouth, and would 
hang fresh chickweed about its cage. Mornings 
she used to sing, from her bed, and the bird would 
answer. Indeed, he really seemed quite a com¬ 
panion for her. 

At the time the accident happened I had been 
staying for a few weeks at the hotel, a mile or two 
off, and called at the farm that very day. Lucy 
Maria told me, as I stopped at their door, what the 
kitten had done, and how Georgiana had cried and 
mourned and could not be comforted. 

I found her sitting on the door-step. She had 


166 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


placed the bird in a small round basket, lined with 
cotton-wool, and was bending over, and stroking 
it. I had always noticed the bird a great deal, used 
to play with it, and whistle to make it sing louder 
and louder. The sight of me brought all this back 
to her mind, and she burst into tears again, sobbing 
out, “ Oh, he never — will sing — any more! Dear 
little birdie! He had to fall down! He couldn’t 
— help it! ” 

I talked with her awhile, in a cheerful way, and 
when she had become quite calm I held out my hand 
and said, “ Come, Georgie, don’t you want to go 
with me and find a pretty place where we can put 
birdie away, under the soft grass? And we will 
plant a flower there.” 

The idea of the soft grass and the flower seemed 
to please her. She took my hand, and we went to 
look about. 

We thought the garden not a very good place, be¬ 
cause it was dug up every year, and the field would 
be mowed and trampled upon. But just over the 
fence, back of the garden, we came upon some un¬ 
even ground, where the old summer-sweeting trees 
grew. In one place there was a sudden pitch down¬ 
wards, into a little hollow, which grass and plantain 
leaves made almost forever green. For here was 
what they called the Boiling Spring. The water 
bubbled out of the ground on the slope of the bank, 
and in former times, before the well was dug, had 
been used in the family. Several trees grew about 



A SOLEMN SERVICE 


167 


there, — wild cherry, damson, and poplar, — and a 
profusion of yellow flowers, wild ones. Some of 
these grandmother called “ Ladies’ Slipper”; the 
others, “ Sullendine.” The spring had once been 
stoned up and boxed over. But the boards were 
now rotting away, the stones falling in, and our little 
hollow had quite a deserted look. The water trick¬ 
led out and ran away around the curve of the bank. 

Grandmother came with us, and Georgie’s 
teacher, &nd Matilda and Tommy. We hollowed 
out a little place under the wild-cherry tree, wrapped 
the birdie in cotton-wool, laid him in, and covered 
him over with the green sod. I then went down by 
the stone wall, where sweetbriers were growing, 
dug up a very pretty little one, and set it out close 
by, so that it might lean against the cherry-tree. 
Tommy kept very sober, and scarcely spoke a word, 
till all was over. He then said to me, in a very ear¬ 
nest tone, “ Mr. Fwy, now will another birdie grow 
up there? ” 

I suppose he was thinking of his father’s plant¬ 
ing corn and more corn growing. 


William Henry to his Sister . 

My Dear Little Sister: 

I’m sorry your little birdie’s dead! He was a 
nice singing birdie! But I wouldn’t cry. Maybe 


168 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


you’ll have another one some time, if you’re a good 
little girl. Maybe Father’ll go to Boston and buy 
you one, or maybe Cousin Joe will send one home to 
you, in a vessel, or maybe I’ll catch one, or maybe a 
man will come along with birds to sell, or maybe 
Aunt Phebe’s bird will lay an egg and hatch one out. 
I wouldn’t feel bad about it. It isn’t any use to feel 
bad about it. Maybe, if he hadn’t been killed, he’d 
’a’ died. Dorry says, “ Tell her, ‘ Don’t you cry,’ 
and I’ll give her something, catch her a rabbit or a 
squirrel! ” Says he’ll tease his sister for her white 
mice. Says he’ll tease her with the tears in his 
eyes, — or else her banties. 

How do you like your teacher? Do you learn 
any lessons at school? You must try to get up 
above all the other ones. We’ve got two new teach¬ 
ers this year. One is clever, and we like that one, 
but the other one isn’t very. We call the good 
one Wedding Cake, and we call the other one Brown 
Bread. Did Grandmother tell you about the For¬ 
tune-Tellers? We went to-day and she told mine 
true. She said my father was a very kind man, 
and said I was quick to get mad, and said I had just 



THE FORTUNE-TELLERS 


169 


got something I’d wanted a long time (watch, you 
know), and said I should have something else that 
I wanted, but didn’t say when. I wonder how she 
knew I wanted a gun. I thought perhaps some¬ 
body told her, and laid it to Old Wonder Boy, for 
we two had been talking about guns. But he flared 
up just like a flash of powder. “ There. Now you 
needn’t blame that on to me! ” says he. “ You fel¬ 
lows always do blame everything on to me! ” Some¬ 
times when somebody touches him he hollers out, 
“ Leave me loose! Leave me loose! ” Dorry says 
that’s the way fellers talk down in Jersey. The For¬ 
tune-Teller told W. B. that he came from a long way 
off, and that he wanted to be a soldier, but he’d better 
give up that, for he wouldn’t dare to go to war, with¬ 
out he went behind to sell pies. All of us laughed 
to hear that, for Old Wonder Boy is quick to get 
scared. But he is always straightening himself up, 
and looking big, and talking about his native land, 
and what he would do for his native land, and how 
he would fight for his native land, and how he would 
die for his native land. He says that why she told 
him that kind of a fortune was because he gave her 


170 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


pennies and not silver money. His uncle that goes 
cap’n of a vessel has sent him a letter, and in the 
letter it said that he had a sailor aboard his ship that 
used to come to this school. 

I was going to tell you a funny story about W. 
B.’s getting scared, but Dorry he keeps teasing me to 
go somewhere. I made these joggly letters when he 
tickled my ears with his paint-brush. Has your 



pullet begun to lay yet? I hope my rooster won’t 
be killed. Tell them not to. Benjie says he had a 
grand great rooster. It was white and had green 
and purple tail-feathers, oh, very long tail-feath¬ 
ers, and stood ’most as high as a barrel of flour, with 
great yellow legs, and had a beautiful crow, and 
could drive away every other one that showed his 
head, and he set his eyes by that rooster, but when he 
got home they had killed him for broth, and when he 






AN INTERRUPTED LETTER 


171 


asked ’em where his rooster was they brought out 
the wish-bone and two tail-feathers, and that was all 
there was left of him. I wouldn’t have poor little 
kitty drowned ’way down in the deep water, ’cause 
to drown a kitty couldn’t make a birdie alive again. 
Have your flowers bloomed out yet? You must 
be a good little girl, and try to please your grand¬ 
mother all you can. 

From your affectionate brother, 

William Henry. 

P. S. Now Dorry’s run to head off a loose horse, 
and I’ll tell you about Old Wonder Boy’s getting 
scared. It was one night when — Now there 
comes Dorry back again! But next time I will. 

W.H. 

William Henry to his Sister , about Old 
Wonder Boy's Fright. 

My dear Sister: 

I will put that little story I am going to tell you 
right at the beginning, before Dorry and Bubby 


172 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


Short get back. I mean about W. B.’s getting 
scared. But don’t you be scared, for after all ’twas 
— no, I mean after all ’twasn’t — but wait and 
you’ll know by and by, when I tell you. ’Twas one 
night when Dorry and I and some more fellers were 
sitting here together, and we all of us heard some 
thick boots coming a hurrying up the stairs, and the 
door came a banging open, and W. B. pitched in, 
just as pale as a sheet, and couldn’t but just breathe. 
And he tried to speak, but couldn’t, only one word 
at once, and catching his breath between, just so, — 
“ Shut — the — door! — Do! — Do! — shut — 
the door! ” Then we shut up the door, and Bubby 
Short stood his back up against it because ’twouldn’t 
quite latch, and now I will tell you what it was 
that scared him. Not at the first of it, but I shall 
tell it just the same way we found it out. 

Says he, “ I was making a box, and when I got 
it done, ’twas dark, but I went to carry the carpen¬ 
ter’s tools back to him, because I promised to. And 
going along,” says he, “ I thought I heard a funny 
noise behind me, but I didn’t think very much about 
it, but I heard it again, and I looked over my shoul- 








WONDER BOY’S FRIGHT 


173 


der, and I saw something white behind me, a-chas- 
ing me. I went faster, and then that went faster. 
Then I went slower, and then that went slower. 
And then I got scared and ran as fast as I could, and 
looked over my shoulder and ’twas keeping up. 
But it didn’t run with feet, nor with legs, for then I 
shouldn’t ’a’ been scared. But it came — oh, I 
don’t know how it came, without anything to go on.” 

Dorry asked him, “ How did it look? ” 

“ Oh, — white. All over white,” says W. B. 

“ How big was it? ” Bubby Short asked him. 

“ Oh, — I don’t know,” says W. B. “ First it 
looked about as big as a pigeon, but every time I 
looked round it seemed to grow bigger and hig¬ 
her.” 

“ Maybe ’twas a pigeon,” says Dorry. “ Did 
it have any wings? ” 

“ Not a wing,” says W. B. 

“ Maybe ’twas a white cat,” says Mr. Augustus. 

“ Oh, poh, cat! ” says W. B. 

“ Or a poodle dog,” says Benjie. 

“ Nonsense, poodle dog! ” says W. B. 

“ Or a rabbit,” says Bubby Short. 



174 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

“ Oh, go ’way with your rabbit! ” says W. B. 
“ Didn’t I tell you it hadn’t any feet or legs to go 
with?” 

“ Then how could it go? ” Mr. Augustus asked 
him. 

“ That’s the very thing,” said W. B. 

“ Snakes do,” says Bubby Short. 

“ But a snake wouldn’t look white,” says Benjie. 

“ Without ’twas scared,” says Dorry. 

I said I guessed I knew. Like enough ’twas a 
ghost of something. 

I said like enough of a robin or some kind of bird. 

“ Of what? ” then they all asked me. 

“ That he’d stolen the eggs of,” says Dorry. 

“ Oh, yes! ” says Old Wonder Boy. “ It’s easy 
enough to laugh, in the light here, but I guess you’d 
’a’ been scared, seeing something chasing you in 
the dark, and going up and down, and going tick, 
tick, tick, every time it touched ground, and some¬ 
times it touched my side, too.” 

“ For goodness gracious! ” says Dorry. “ Can’t 
you tell what it seemed most like? ” 

“ I tell you it didn’t seem most like anything. 


SOLVING THE MYSTERY 175 

It didn’t run, nor walk, nor fly, nor creep, nor glide 
along. And when I got to the Great Elm-Tree, 
I cut round that tree, and ran this way, and that did 

too.” 

* 

“ Where is it now? ” Dorry asked him. 

“ Oh, don’t! ” says W. B. “ Don’t open the 
door. ’Tis out there.” 

“ Come, fellers,” Dorry said, “ let’s go find it.” 
Benjie said, “ Let’s take something to hit it 
with! ” And he took an umbrella and I took the 
bootjack, and Bubby Short took the towel horse, 
and Mr. Augustus took a hair-brush, and Dorry took 
his boot with his arm run down in it, and first we 
opened the door a crack and didn’t go out, but 
peeped out, but didn’t see anything there. Then 
we went out a little way, and then we didn’t see 
anything. And pretty soon, going along towards 
the stairs, Bubby Short stepped on something. 
“ What’s that? ” says he. And he jumped, and 
we all flung our things at it. “ Hold the light! ” 
Dorry cried out. 

Then W. B. brought out the light, and there 
wasn’t anything there but a carpenter’s reel, with 


176 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


a chalk line wound up on it, and they picked it up 
and began to wind up, and when they came to the 
end of it — where do you s’pose the other end was? 
In W. B.’s pocket! and his ball and some more things 
held it fast there, and that chalk-line reel was what 
went bobbing up and down behind Old Wonder 
Boy every step he took, — bob, bob, bobbing up 
and down, for there was a hitch in the line and it 



couldn’t unwind any more, and the line under the 
door was why ’twouldn’t latch, and oh, but you 
ought to’ve heard the fellers how they roared! and 
Bubby Short rolled over on the floor, and Dorry 
he tumbled heels over head on all the beds, and we 
all shouted and hurrahed so the other fellers came 

I 

running to see what was up, and then the teachers 
came to see who was flinging things round so up 












A RECOVERED APPETITE 


177 


\ 

here, and to see what was the matter, but there 
couldn’t anybody tell what the matter was for laugh¬ 
ing, and W. B. he looked so sheepish! Oh, if it 
wasn’t gay! How do you like this story? That 
part where it touches his side was when that reel 
caught on something and so jerked the string some. 
Now I must study my lesson. 

Your affectionate brother, 

William Henry. 

P. S. When you send a box, don’t send very 
many clothes in it, but send goodies. I tell you, 

things taste good when a feller’s away from his 

% 

folks. Dorry’s father had a picture * taken of 
Dorry’s little dog and sent it to him, and it looks 
just as natural as some boys. Tell Aunt Phebe’s 
little Tommy he may sail my boat once. ’Tis put 
away up garret in that corner where I keep things, 
side of that great long-handled thing, Grandmother’s 
warming-pan. I mean that little sloop boat I had 
when I’s a little feller. 


W. H. 


178 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


Georgiana’s Letter to William Henry. 

My dear Brother Billy: 

Kitty isn’t drowned. I’ve got ever so many new 
dolls. My grandmother went to town, not the same 
day my kitty did that, but the next day, and she 
brought me home a new doll, and that same day she 
went there my father went to Boston, and he brought 
me home a very big one, — no, not very, but quite 
big, — and Aunt Phebe went a visiting to some¬ 
body’s house that very day, and she brought me 
home a doll, and while she was gone away Hannah 
Jane dressed over one of Matilda’s old ones new, and 
none of tire folks knew that the others were going to 
give me a doll, and then Uncle J. said that if it was 
the family custom to give Georgiana a doll, he would 
give Georgiana a doll, and he went to the field and 
catched the colt, and tackled him up into the riding- 
wagon on purpose, and then he started off to town, 
and when he rode up to our back door there was a 
great dolly, the biggest one I had, and she was sit¬ 
ting down on the seat, just like a live one. And she 
had a waterfall, and she had things to take off and 



GEORGIANA’S DOLLS 


179 


on. Then Uncle J. asked me what I should do 
with my old dollies that were ’most worn out. And 
I said I didn’t know what I should. And then 
Uncle J. said that he would take the lot, for twenty- 
five cents a head, to put up in his garden, for scare¬ 
crows, and he asked me if I would sell, and I said I 
would. And he put the little ones on little poles 
and the big ones on tall poles, with their arms 
stretched out, and the one with a long veil looked 
the funniest, and so did the one dressed up like a 
sailor boy, but one arm was broke off of him, and a 
good many of their noses, too. The one that had 
on old woman’s clothes Uncle J. put a pipe in her 
mouth. And the one that had a pink gauze dress, 
but ’tis all faded out now, and a long train, but the 
train was torn very much, that one has a great bunch 
of flowers — paper — pinned on to her, and an¬ 
other in her hand, and the puppy he barks at ’em 
like everything. My pullet lays, little ones, you 
know. I hope she won’t do like Lucy Maria’s Leg¬ 
horn hen. That one flies into the bedroom window 
every morning, and lays eggs on the bedroom bed. 
For maybe ’twould come in before I got up. My 




180 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


class has begun to learn geography, and my father 
has bought me a new geography. But I guess I 
sha’n’t like to learn it very much if the backside is 
hard as the foreside is. Uncle J. says no need to 
worry your mind any about that old fowl, for he’s 
so tough he couldn’t be killed. I wish you would 
tell me how long he would live if it wasn’t killed, for 
Uncle J. says they grow tougher every year, and if 
you should let one live too long, then he can’t die. 
But I guess he’s funning, do you? Our hens scratched 
and scratched up some of my flowers, and so did the 
rain wash some up that night it came down so hard, 
but one pretty one bloomed out this morning, but it 
has budded back again now. Aunt Phebe says she 
sends her love to you, tied up with this pretty piece 
of blue ribbon. She says, if you want to, you can 
take the ribbon and wear it for a neck bow. Grand¬ 
mother says how do you know but that sailor that 
went to your school in Old Wonder Boy’s uncle’s 
vessel is that big boy, that bad one that ran away, 
you called Tom Cush? 

Father laughs to hear about Old Wonder Boy, 
and he says a bragger ought to be laughed at, and 


A NEW NEIGHBOR 


181 


bragging is a bad thing. But he don’t want you 
to pick out all the bad things about a boy to send 
home in your letters; says next time you must send 
home a good thing about him, because he thinks 
every boy you see has some good thing as well as 
some bad things. 

A dear little baby has moved in the house next to 
our house. It lets me hold her, and its mother lets 
me drag her out. It’s got little bits of toes, and it’s 
got a little bit of a nose, and it says, “ Da da! da 
da! da da! ” And when I was dragging her out, 
the wheel went over a poor little butterfly, but I 
guess it was dead before. Oh, its wings were just 
as soft! and ’twas a yellow one. And I buried it 
up in the ground close to where I buried up my little 
birdie, side of the spring. 

Your affectionate sister, 

Georgiana. 

Among the other letters I find the following, from 
Tom Cush. As the people at Summer Sweeting 
Place had been told the circumstances of his running 
away, it was not only proper, but just, that William 
Henry should send them this letter. 


i 


182 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


A Letter from Tom Cush to Dorry. 

Dear Friend: 

I have not seen you for a great while. I hope 
you are in good health. Does William Henry go 
to school there now? And does Benjie go, and 
little Bubby Short? I hope they are in good health. 
Do the Two Betsys keep shop there now? Is Gap- 
per Skyblue alive now? I am in very good health. 
I go to sea now. That’s where I went when I went 
away from school. I suppose all the boys hate me, 
don’t they? But I don’t blame them any for hating 
me. I should think they would all of them hate me. 
For I didn’t act very well when I went to that school. 
Our captain knows about that school, for he is 
uncle to a boy that has begun to go. He’s sent a 
letter to him. I wish that boy would write a letter 
to him, because he might tell about the ones I know. 

I’ve been making up my mind about telling you 
something. I’ve been thinking about it, and think¬ 
ing about it. I don’t like to tell things very well. 
But I am going to tell this to you. It isn’t anything 
to tell. I mean it isn’t like news, or anything hap- 


TOM CUSH AT SEA 


1S3 


pening to anybody. But it is something about 
when I was sick. For I had a fit of sickness. I 
don't mean afterwards, when I was so very sick, 
but at the first beginning of it. 

The captain he took some books out of his chest 
and said I might have them to read if I wanted to. 
And I read about a man in one of them, and the king 
wanted him to do something that the man thought 
wasn't right to do; but the man said he would not 
do what was wrong. And for that he was sent to 
row in a very large boat among all kinds of bad men, 
thieves and murderers and the worst kind. They 
had to row every minute, and were chained to their 
oars, and above their waists thev had no clothes on. 
They had overseers with long whips. The officers 
stayed on deck over the rowers' heads, and when 
they wanted the vessel to go faster, the overseers 
made their long whip-lashes cut into the men's backs 
till they were all raw and bleeding. Xights the 
chains were not taken off. and they slept all piled 
up on each other. Sometimes when the officers were 
in a hurry, or when there were soldiers aboard, go¬ 
ing to fight the enemy's vessels, then the men 


184 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


wouldn't have even a minute to eat, and were al¬ 
most starved to death, and got so weak they would 
fall over, but then they were whipped again. And 
when they got to the enemy’s ships, they had to 
sit and have cannons fired in among them. Then 
the dead ones were picked up and thrown into the 
water. And the king told the man that if he wanted 
to be free, and have plenty to eat and a nice house, 
and good clothes to wear, all he had to do was to 
promise to do that wrong thing. But the man said 
no. For to be chained there would only hurt his 
body. But to do wrong would hurt his soul. 

And I read about some people that lived many 
hundred years ago and the emperor of that country 
wanted these people to say that their religion was 
wrong and his religion was the right one. But 
they said, “ No. We believe ours is true, and we 
cannot lie.” Then the emperor took away all their 
property, and pierced them with red-hot irons, and 
threw some into a place where they kept wild beasts. 
But they still kept saying, “ We cannot lie, we must 
speak what we believe.” And one was a boy only 
fifteen years old. And the emperor thought he 


A NEW TOM CUSH 


185 


was so young they could scare him very easy. And 
he said to him, “ Now say you believe the way I 
want you to, or I will have you shut up in a dark 
dungeon.” But the boy said, “ I will not say what 
is false.” And he was shut up in a dark dungeon, 
underground. And one day the emperor said to 
him, “ Say you believe the way I want you to, or I 
will have you stretched upon a rack.” But the boy 
said, “ I will not speak falsely.” And he was 
stretched upon a rack till his bones were almost 
pulled apart. Then the emperor asked, “ Now will 
you believe that my religion is right? ” But the 
boy could not say so. And the emperor said, “ Then 
you’ll be burned alive! ” The boy said, “ I can 
suffer the burning, but I cannot lie.” Then he was 
brought out and the wood was piled up round him, 
and set on fire, and the boy was burned up with the 
wood. And while he was burning up he thanked 
God for having strength enough to suffer and not lie. 

Dorry, I want to tell you how much I’ve been 
thinking about that man and that boy ever since. 
And I want to ask you to do something. I’ve been 
thinking about how mean I was, and what I did 


186 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


there so as not to get punished. And I want you 
to go see my mother and tell her that I’m ashamed. 
Don’t make any promises to my mother, but only 
just tell, “ Tom's ashamed That’s all. I don’t 
want to make promises. But I know myself just 
what I mean to do. But I sha’n’t talk about that 
any. Give my regards to all inquiring friends. 

Your affectionate friend, 

Tom. 

P. S. Can’t you tell things about me to William 
Henry and the others, for it is very hard to me to 
write a letter? Write soon. 

Mr. Carver’s visit to the Crooked Pond School 
alluded to in the following letter was quite an event 
for my Summer Sweeting friends, and caused an 
extra amount of cooking to be done in both fam¬ 
ilies. 

William Henry's Letter to his Grandmother. 

My Dear Grandmother: 

I suppose my father has got home again by this 
time. I like to have my father come to see me. 
The boys all say my father is a tiptop one. I 
guess they like to have a man treat them with so 


TOM CUSH’S MOTHER 


187 


many peanuts and good seed-cakes. I got back 
here to-day from Dorry’s cousin’s party. My 
father let me go. I wish my sister could have seen 
that party. Tell her when I get there I will tell 
her all about the little girls, and tell her how cun¬ 
ning the little ones, as small as she, looked dancing, 
and about the good things we had. Oh, I never 
saw such good things before! I didn’t know there 
were such kinds of good things in the world. 

Did my father tell you all about that letter that 
Tom Cush wrote to Dorry? Ask him to. Dorry 
sent that letter right to Tom Cush’s mother. And 
when Dorry and I were walking along together the 
next morning after the party, she was sitting at her 
window, and as soon as she saw us she said, “ Won’t 
you come in, boys? Do come in! ” And looked 
so glad! And laughed, and about half cried, after 
we went in, and it was that same room where we 
went before. But it didn’t seem so lonesome now, 
not half. It looked about as sunshiny as our 
kitchen does, and they had flower-vases. I wish I 
could get some of those pretty seeds for my sister, 
for she hasn’t got any of that kind of flowers. 


188 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

She seemed just as glad to see us! And shook 
hands and looked so smiling, and so did Tom’s father 
when he came into the room. He had a belt in 
his hand that Tom used to wear when he used to 
belong to that Baseball Club. And when we saw 
that, Dorry said, “Why! has Tom got back? ” 
Tom’s mother said, “ Oh, no.” But his father said, 
“ Oh, yes! Tom’s got back. He hasn’t got back 
to our house, but he’s got back. He hasn’t got back 
to town, but he’s got back. He hasn’t got back to 
his own country, but he’s got back. For I call that 
getting back,” says he, “ when a boy gets back to the 
right way of feeling.” 

Then Tom’s mother took that belt and hung it up 
where it used to be before, for it had been taken 
down and put away, because they didn’t want to 
have it make them think of Tom so much. 

She said when Tom got back in earnest, back 
to the house, that we two, Dorry and I, must 
come there and make a visit, and I hope we 
shall, for they’ve got a pond at the bottom of 
their garden, and Toni’s father owns a boat, 
and you mustn’t think I should tip over, for I 


A NEW HAT 


189 


sha’n’t, and no matter if I should, I can swim to 
shore easy. 

Your affectionate grandchild, 

William Henry. 

P. S. Bubby Short didn’t mean to, but he sat 
down on my speckled straw hat, and we couldn’t 
get it out even again, and I didn’t want him to, but 
he would go to buy me a new one, and I went with 
him, but the man didn’t have any, for he said the 
man that made speckled straw hats was dead and 

i 

his shop was burnt down, and we found a brown 
straw hat, but I wouldn’t let Bubby Short pay any 
of his money, only eight cents, because I didn’t have 
quite enough. Don’t shopkeepers have the most 
money of all kinds of men? Wouldn’t you be a 
shopkeeper when I grow up? It seems just as easy! 
If you was me would you swap off your white- 
handled jackknife your father bought you for a 
four-blader? My sister said to send some of W. 
B.’s good things. He wrote a very good composi¬ 
tion about heads, the teacher said, and I am going 
to send it, for that will be sending one of his good 
things. It’s got in it about two dozen kinds of 


190 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

heads besides our own heads. W. B. is willing for 
me to copy it off. And Bubby Short wrote a very 

cunning little one, and if you want to, you may read 
it. The teacher told us a good deal about heads. 

W. H. 



W. B’s Composition. 

HEADS 

Heads are of different shapes and different sizes. 
They are full of notions. Large heads do not al¬ 
ways hold the most. Some persons can tell just 
what a man is by the shape of his head. High 
heads are the best kind. Very knowing people are 
called long-headed. A fellow that won’t stop for 
anything or anybody is called hot-headed. If he 

















HEADS 


191 


isn’t quite so bright, they call him soft-headed; 
if he won’t be coaxed nor turned, they call him pig¬ 
headed. Animals have very small heads. The 
heads of fools slant back. When your head is cut 
off, you are beheaded. Our heads are all covered 
with hair, except baldheads. There are other kinds 
of heads besides our heads. 

First, there are Barrel-heads. Second, there are 
Pin-heads. Third, Heads of sermons, — some¬ 
times a minister used to have fifteen heads to one 
sermon. Fourth, Headwind. Fifth, Head of cat¬ 
tle, — when a farmer reckons up his cows and oxen 
he calls them so many head of cattle. Sixth, Drum¬ 
heads, — drumheads are made of sheepskin. Sev¬ 
enth, Heads or tails, — when you toss up pennies. 
Eighth, Doubleheaders, — when you let off rock¬ 
ets. Ninth, Come to a head — like a boil or a 
rebellion. Tenth, Cabbageheads, — dunces are 
called cabbageheads, and good enough for them. 
Eleventh, At Loggerheads, — when you don’t agree. 
Twelth, Heads of chapters. Thirteenth, Head him 
off, — when you want to stop a horse, or a boy. 
Fourteenth, Head of the family. Fifteenth, A 
Blunderhead. Sixteenth, The Masthead, — where 
they send sailors to punish them. Seventeenth, get 
up to the Head, — when you spell the word right. 
Eighteenth, The Head of a stream, — where it be¬ 
gins. Nineteenth, Down by the Head, — when a 
vessel is deep loaded at the bows. Twentieth, a 
Figure-head carved on a vessel. Twenty-first, The 












192 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


Cathead, and that’s the end of a stick of timber that 
a ship’s anchor hangs by. Twenty-second, A Head¬ 
land, or cape. Twenty-third, A Head of tobacco. 
Twenty-fourth, A Bulkhead, which is a partition 
in a ship. Twenty-fifth, Go ahead, — but first be 
sure you are right. 

Bubby Short’s Composition. 

ON MORNING. 

It is very pleasant to get up in the morning and 
walk in the green fields, and hear the birds sing. 
The morning is the earliest part of the day. The 
sun rises in the morning. It is very good for our 
health to get up early. It is very pleasant to see 
the sun rise in the morning. In the morning the 
flowers bloom out and smell very good. If it thun¬ 
ders in the morning, or there’s a rainbow, ’twill be 
rainy weather. Fish bite best in the morning, when 
you go a-fishing. I like to sleep in the morning. 

Here is a letter which, judging from the improve¬ 
ment shown in handwriting, and from its father 
more dashing style, seems to have been written dur¬ 
ing William Henry’s second school year. 

William Henry’s Letter about the “ Charade.” 

My Dear Grandmother: 

I never did in all my life have such a real tiptop 


ACTING CHARADES 


193 


time as we fellers had last night. We acted char¬ 
ades, and I never did any before, and the word was 
— no, I mustn’t tell you, because it has to be guessed 
by actions, and when you get the paper that I’m 
going to send you, soon as I buy a two-cent stamp, 
then you’ll see it all printed out in that paper. The 
teacher the fellers call Wedding Cake, because he’s 
such a good one, asked all the ones that board here 
to come to his house last night, and we acted char¬ 
ades, and his sister told us what to be, and what 
things to put on, and everything. You’ll see it 
printed there, but you must please to send it back, 
for I promised to return. 

There weren’t females enough, and so Dorry he 
was the Fat Woman, and we all liked to ’a’ died a 
laughing, getting ready, but when we were — there, 
I ’most told! 

Oh, if you could ha’ seen Bubby Short,-a-fiddling 
away, with old ragged clothes and old shoes and his 
cap turned wrong side out, then he passed round 
that cap — just as sober — much as we could do to 
keep in! I was a clerk, and had a real handsome 
mustache done under my nose with a piece of burnt 



194 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

cork-stopple burned over the light. And she told 
me to act big, like a clerk, and I did. 

Mr. Augustus was the dandy, and if he didn’t 
strut, but he struts other times, too, but more then, 
and made all of us laugh. 

Old Wonder Boy was the boy that sold candy, and 
he spoke up smart and quick, just as she told him 
to, and the teacher was the country feller and acted 
just as funny, and so did his sister; his sister was 
the shopping woman. Both of them like to play 
with boys, and they’re grown up, too. Should you 
think they would? And they like candy same as 
we do. And when it came to the end, just as the 
curtain was dropping down, we all took hold of the 
rounds of our chairs, and jerked ourselves all of a 
sudden up in a heap together, and groaned, and so 
forth. 

I wish you all and Aunt Phebe’s folks had been 
there. We had a treat, and oh, if ’twasn’t a treat, 
why, I’ll agree to treat myself. Three kinds of 
ice-creams shaped up into pyramids and rabbits, 
and scalloped cakes and candy, and such a great 
floating island in a platter! — Dorry said ’twas a 



A TREAT 


195 


floating continent! —and had red jelly round the 
platter’s edge, and some of that red jelly was dipped 
out every dip. Oh, if he isn’t a tiptop teacher! 
Dorry says we ought to be ashamed of ourselves if 
we have missing lessons, or cut up any for much as 
a week, and more, too, I say. 

And so I can’t tell any more now, for I mean to 
study hard if I possibly can. 

Your affectionate grandson, 

William Henry. 

Please lend it to Aunt Phebe’s folks.* 

William Henry to his Grandmother. 

Dear Grandmother: 

The puddles bear in the morning and next thing 
the pond will, and I want to have my skates here all 
ready. ’Most all the boys have got all theirs al¬ 
ready, waiting for it to freeze. They hang up on 
that beam in the sink-room chamber. Look under 
my trainer trousers that I had to play trainer in 
when I’s a little chap, on that great wooden peg, 


* This Charade is given at end of book, p. 323. 



196 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


and you’ll find ’em hanging up under the trousers. 
And my sled, too, for Dorry and I are going to have 
double-runner together soon as snow comes. It’s 
down cellar. We went to be weighed, and the man 
said I was built of solid timber. Dorry he hid 
some great iron dumb-bells in his pockets for fun, 
and the man first he looked at Dorry and then at 
the figures, and then at his weights; he didn’t know 
what to make of it. For I’ve grown so much faster 
that we’re almost of a size. 

First of it Dorry kept a sober face, but pretty 
soon he began to laugh, and took the dumb-bells 
out, and then weighed over, and guess what we 
weighed? 

The fellers call us “ Dorry & Co.,” because we 
keep together so much. When he goes anywhere he 
says “ Come, Sweet William! ” and when I go any¬ 
where I say “ Come, Old Dorrymas! ” There’s a 
flower named Sweet William. There isn’t any fish 
named Dorrymas, but there’s one named Gurry- 
mas. We keep our goodies in the same box, and so 
we do our pencils and the rest of our traps. His 
bed is ’most close to mine, and the one that wakes 


BUYING A FOOTBALL 


197 


up first pulls the other one’s hair. One boy that 
comes here is a funny-looking chap, and wears cinna¬ 
mon-colored clothes, all faded out. He isn’t a very 
big feller. He has his clothes given to him. He 
comes days and goes home nights, for he lives in 
this town. He’s got great eyes and a great mouth, 
and always looks as if he was just a-going to laugh. 
Sometimes when the boys go by him they make a 
noise, sniff, sniff, sniff, with their noses, making be¬ 
lieve they smelt something spicy, like cinnamon. 
I hope you’ll find my skates, and send ’em right off, 
for fear the pond might freeze over. They hang on 
that great wooden peg in the sink-room chamber, 
that sticks in where two beams come together, under 
my trainer trousers; you’ll see the red stripes. 

Some of us have paid a quarter apiece to get a 
football, and shouldn’t you think ’twas real mean 
for anybody to back out, and then come to kick? 
One feller did. And he was one of the first ones to 
get it up, too. “ Let’s get up a good one while we’re 
about it,” says he, “that won’t kick right out.” 
Dorry went to pick it out, and took his own money, 
and all the rest paid in their quarters, and what was 


198 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


over the price we took in peanuts. Oh, you ought 
to’ve seen that bag of peanuts! Held about half 
a bushel. When he found the boys were talking 
about him he told somebody that when anybody 
said, “ Let’s get up something,” it wasn’t just the 
same as to say he’d pay part. But we say’tis. And 
we talked about it down to the Two Betsys’ shop, 
and Lame Betsy said ’twas mean doings enough, 
and The Other Betsy said, “ Anybody that won’t 
pay their part, I don’t care who they be.” And I’ve 
seen him eating taffy three times and more, too, 
since then, and figs. And he comes and kicks some¬ 
times, and when they offered some of the peanuts 
to him, to see if he’d take any, he took some. 

Now Spicey won’t do that. We said he might 
kick, but he don’t want to, not till he gets his quar¬ 
ter. He’s going to earn it. If my skates don’t 
hang up on that wooden peg, like enough Aunt 
Phebe’s little Tommy’s been fooling with ’em. 
Once he did, and they fell through that hole where 
a piece of the floor is broke out. You’d better look 
down that hole. I’m going to send home my Re- 
port next time. I couldn’t get perfect every time. 


BILLY’S MARKS 


199 


Dorry says if a feller did that, he’d know too much 
to come to school. But there’s some that do. Not 
very many. Spicey did four days running. I 
could ’a’ got more perfects, only one time I didn’t 
know how far to get, and another time I didn’t hear 
what the question was he put out to me, and an¬ 
other time I didn’t stop to think and answered 
wrong when I knew just as well as could be. And 
another time I missed in the rules. You better be¬ 
lieve they are hard things to get. Bubby Short 
says he wishes they’d take out the rules and let us 
do our sums in peace, and so I say. And then one 
more time some people came to visit the school, and 
they looked right in my face, when the question came 
to me, and put me out. I shouldn’t think visitors 
would look a feller right in the face, when he’s try¬ 
ing to tell something. Dorry says that I blushed 
up as red as fire-coals. I guess a red-header blushes 
up redder than any other kind; don’t you? I had 
some taken off my Deportment, because I laughed 
out loud. I didn’t mean to, but I’m easy to laugh. 
But Dorry he can keep a sober face just when 
he wants to, and so can Bubby Short. I was 


200 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


laughing at Bubby Short. He was snapping ap¬ 
ple-seeds at Old Wonder Boy’s cheeks, and he 
couldn’t tell who snapped ’em, for Bubby Short 
would be studying away, just as sober. At last 
one hit hard, and W. B. jumped and shook his fist 
at the wrong feller, and I felt a laugh coming, and 
puckered my mouth up, and twisted round, but first 
thing I knew, out it came, just as sudden, and that 
took off some. 

I shall keep the Report till next time, because 
this time I’m going to send mine and Dorry’s photo¬ 
graphs taken together. We both paid half. We 
got it taken in a saloon that travels about on wheels. 
’Tis stopping here now. Course we didn’t expect 
to look very handsome. But the man says ’tis won¬ 
derful what handsome pictures homely folks expect 
to make. Says he tells ’em he had to take what’s 
before him. Dorry says he’s sure we look very well 
for the first time taking. Says it needs practice 
to make a handsome picture. Please send it back 
soon because he wants to let his folks see it. Send 
it when you send the skates. Send the skates soon 
as you can, for fear the pond might freeze over. 


BILLY’S PHOTOGRAPH 


201 


Aunt Phebe’s little Tommy can have my old sharp¬ 
shooter for his own, if he wants it. Remember 
me to my sister. 

Your affectionate Grandson, 

William Henry. 

As the photograph above mentioned had alto¬ 
gether too serious an expression, a younger one was 
used in drawing the picture for the frontispiece. 
None of the three does him justice, as none of the 
three can give his merry laugh. 

y \ 

Grandmother to William Henry. 

My dear Boy: 

Your father and all of us were very glad to see 
that photograph, for it seemed next thing to seeing 
you, you dear child. We couldn’t bear to send it 
away so soon. I kept it on the mantelpiece, with 
my spectacles close by, so that when I went past it 
I could take a look. We sent word in to your aunt 
Phebe and in a few minutes little Tommy came run¬ 
ning across and said his “ muzzer ” said he must 
“ bwing Billy’s Pokerdaff in, wight off.” But I 


202 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

told him to tell his muzzer that Billy’s Pokerdaff 
must be sent back very soon, and wasn’t going out of 
my sight a minute while it stayed, and they must 
come in. And they did. We all think ’tis a very 
natural picture, only too sober. You ought to try 
to look smiling at such times. I wish you’d had 
somebody to pull down your jacket, and see to your 
collar’s being even. But Aunt Phebe say ’tis a won¬ 
der you look as well as you do, with no woman to 
fix you. I should know Dorry’s picture anywhere. 
Uncle Jacob wants to know what you were both 
so cross about? Says you look as if you’d go to 
fighting the minute you got up. 

Little Tommy is tickled enough with that sled, 
and keeps looking up in the sky to see when snow 
is coming down, and drags it about on the bare 
ground, if we don’t watch him. 

I had almost a good mind to keep the skates at 
home. Boys are so venturesome. They always 
think there’s no danger. I said to your father, 
“ Now if anything should happen to Billy I should 
wish we’d never sent them.” But he’s always 
afraid I shall make a Miss Nancy of you. Now I 


GEORGIANA’S BOOTS 


203 


don’t want to do that. But there’s reason in all 
things. And a boy needn’t drown himself to keep 
from being a Miss Nancy. He thinks you’ve got 
sense enough not to skate on thin ice, and says the 
teachers won’t allow you to skate if the pond isn’t 
safe. But I don’t have faith in any pond being 
safe. My dear boy, there’s danger even if the ther¬ 
mometer is below zero. There may be spring- 
holes. Never was a boy got drowned yet skating, 
but that thought there was no danger. Do be 
careful. I know you would if you only knew how 
I keep awake nights worrying about you. 

Anybody would think that your uncle Jacob had 
more money than he knew how to spend. He went 
to the city last week, and brought Georgiana home 
a pair of light blue French kid boots. He won’t 
tell the price. They are high-heeled, very narrow- 
soled, and come up high. He saw them in the win¬ 
dow of one of the grand stores, and thought he’d just 
step in and buy them for Georgie. Never thought 
of their coming so high. I’m speaking of the price. 
Now Georgie doesn’t go to parties, and where the 
child can wear them, going through thick and thin, 


204 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


is a puzzler. She might to meeting, if she could be 
lifted out of the wagon and set down in the broad 
aisle, but Lucy Maria says that won’t do, because 
her meeting dress is cherry-color. Next summer I 
shall get her a light blue barege dress to match ’em, 
for the sake of pleasing her uncle Jacob. When he 
heard us talking about her not going anywhere to 
wear such fancy boots, he said then she should wear 
them over to his house. So twice he has sent a bil¬ 
let in the morning, inviting her to come and take tea, 
and at the bottom he writes, “ Company expected 
to appear in blue boots.” So I dress her up in her 
red dress, and the boots, and draw my plush mocca¬ 
sins over them, and pack her off. Uncle Jacob 
takes her things, and waits upon her to the table, and 
they have great fun out of it. 

My dear Billy, I have been thinking about that 
boy that wears cinnamon-colored clothes. I do 
really hope you won’t be so cruel as to laugh at a 
boy on account of his clothes. What a boy is, don’t 
depend upon what he wears on his back, but upon 
what he has inside of his head and his heart. When 
I was a little girl and went to school in the old school- 


THREE WORDS 


205 


house, the Committee used to come, sometimes, to 
visit the school. One of the Committee was the min¬ 
ister. He was a very fine old gentleman, and a great 
deal thought of by the whole town. He used to wear 
a ruffled shirt, and a watch with a bunch of seals, 
and carry a gold-headed cane. He had white hair, 
and a mild blue eye, and a pleasant smile, that I 
haven’t forgotten yet, though ’twas a great many 
years ago. After we’d read and spelt, and the 
writing-books and ciphering-books had been passed 
round, the teacher always asked him to address the 
school. And there was one thing he used to say, 
almost every time. And he said it in such a smil¬ 
ing, pleasant way, that I’ve remembered it ever 
since. He used to begin in this way. 

“ I love little children. I love to come where 
they are. I love to hear them laugh, and shout. I 
love to watch them while they are at play. And 
because I love them so well, I don’t want there should 
be anything bad about them. Just as when I watch 
a rosebud blooming; — I should be very sorry not 
to have it bloom out into a beautiful, perfect rose. 
And now, children, there are three words I want you 


206 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

all to remember. Only three. You can remember 
three words, canT you? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” we would say. 

“ Well, now, how long can you remember them? ” 
he would ask. “ Can you remember them a whole 
week? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Two weeks? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ A month? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ A year? ” 

“ Guess so.” 

“ All your lives? ” 

Then some would say they guessed not, and some 
didn’t believe they could, and some knew they 
couldn’t. 

“ Well, children,” he would say at last, “ now I 
will tell you what the three words are: Treat — 
everybody — well. Now what I want you to be 
surest to remember is 4 everybody.’ Everybody is 
a word that takes in a great many people, and a great 
many kinds of people, — takes in the washer-wo- 




“ TREAT — EVERYBODY — WELL ” 207 

men and the old man that saws wood, and the col¬ 
ored folks that come round selling baskets, and the 
people that wear second-hand clothes, and the help 
in the kitchen, — takes in those we don’t like and 
even the ones that have done us harm. 4 Treat — 
everybody — well.’ 

“ You can afford to be kind. A pleasant word 
doesn’t cost anything to give, and is a very com¬ 
fortable thing to take.” 

The old gentleman used to look so smiling while 
he talked. And he followed out his own rule. For 
he was just as polite to the poor woman that came 
to clean their paint as he was to any fine lady. He 
wanted to make us feel ashamed of being impolite 
to people who couldn’t wear good clothes. Children 
and grown people, too, he said, were apt to treat 
the ones best that wore the best clothes. He’d 
seen children, and grown folks, too, who would be 
all smiles and politeness to the company, and then 
be ugly and snappish to poor people they’d hired to 
work for them. A real lady or gentleman, — he 
used to end off with this, — “ A real lady, and a real 
gentleman will — treat — everybody—well.” And 






208 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


I will end off with this, too. And don’t you ever 
forget it. For that you may be, my dear boy, a 
true gentleman is the wish of 

Your loving Grandmother. 

P. S. Do be careful when you go a-skating. If 
the ice is ever so thick, there may be spring-holes. 
Your father wants you to have a copy of that pic¬ 
ture taken for us to keep, and sends this money to 
pay for it. I forgot to say that of course it is mean 
for a boy not to pay his part. And for a boy not to 
pay his debts is mean, and next kin to stealing. And 
the smaller the debts are, the meaner it is. We are 
all waiting for your Report. 

I did not think it at all strange that Uncle Jacob 
should buy the blue boots. It is just what I would 
like to do myself. I never go past one of those won¬ 
derful shoe-store windows, and look at the bright 
array of blue, yellow, and red, without wishing I had 
six little girls, with six little pairs of feet. For 
then I should have half a dozen excuses to go in and 
buy, and now I haven’t one. 

Georgie’s boots looked pretty, with the nice white 
stockings her grandmother knit. And I couldn’t 
see any harm in her wearing a red dress with them. 


“ SPICEY ” 


209 


The red, white, and blue are the best colors in the 
world for me, and I’ll never turn against them! 

“ Three cheers for the Red, White, and Blue! ” 

William Henry to his Grandmother. 

My Dear Grandmother: 

Excuse me for not writing before. Here is my 
Report. I haven’t sniffed my nose up any at Spicey. 
I’ll tell you why. Because I remembered when I 
first came, and had a red head, and how bad ’twas 
to be plagued all the time. But I tell you if he 
isn’t a queer-looking chap! Don’t talk any, hardly, 
but he’s great for laughing. Bubby Short says his 
mouth laughs itself. But not out loud. Dorry 
says ’tis a very wide smile. It comes easy to him, 
anyway. He comes in laughing and goes out 
laughing. When you meet him, he laughs, and 
when you speak to him, he laughs. When he don’t 
know the answer, he laughs, and when he says right, 
he laughs, and when you give him anything, he 
laughs, and when he gives you anything, he laughs. 
Though he don’t have very much to give. But he 
can’t say no. All the boys tried one day to see if. 


210 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

they could make him say no. He had an apple, and 
they went up to him, one at once, and said, “ Give 
me a taste/’ “ Give me a taste,” till ’twas every 
bit tasted away. Then they tried him on slate-pen¬ 
cils, — his had bully points to them, — and he gave 
every one away, all but one old stump. But after¬ 
wards Mr. Augustus said ’twas a shame, and the boys 
carried him back the pencils and said they’d done 
with ’em. Dorry says he’s going to ask him for 
his nose some day, and then see what he’ll do. I 
know. Laugh. You better believe he’s a clever 
chap. And he won’t kick. Dorry likes him for 
that. Not till he’s paid his quarter. Mr. Augustus 
offered him the quarter, but he said, “ No, I thank 
you.” “ Why not? ” Mr. Augustus asked him. 
He said he guessed he’d rather earn it. We expect 
the teacher heard about it, and guess he heard about 
that feller that wouldn’t pay his part, and about 
his borrowing and not paying back, for one day he 
addressed the school about money, and he said no 
boy of spirit, or man, either, would ever take money 
as a gift, long as he was able to earn. Course he 
didn’t mean what your fathers give you, and Happy 



GAPPER SKYBLUE 


211 


New Year’s Day, and all that. And to borrow and 
not pay was mean as dirt, besides being wicked. 
He’d heard of people borrowing little at a time and 
making believe forget to pay, because they knew 
’twouldn’t be asked for. The feller I told you about 
— the one that kicks and don’t pay — he owes Gap- 
per Skyblue for four seed-cakes. Mr. Augustus 
says that what makes it mean is, that he knows 
Gapper won’t ask for two cents! Gapper let him 
have ’em for two cents, because he’d had ’em a 
good while and the edges of ’em were some crumbly. 
And he borrowed six cents from Dorrv and knows 
Dorry won’t say anything ever, and so he’s trying 
to keep from paying. I guess his left ear burns 
sometimes! 

Gapper can’t go round now, selling cakes, because 
he’s lame, and has to go with two canes. But he 
keeps a pig, and he and little Rosy make tiptop mo¬ 
lasses candy to sell in sticks, one-centers, and two- 
centers, and sell ’em to the boys when they go up 
there to coast. I tell you if ’tisn’t bully coasting 
on that hill back of his house! We begin ’way up 
to the tip-top and go way down and then across a 




212 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


pond that isn’t there only winters and then into a 
lane, a sort of downish lane, that goes ever so far. 
Bubby Short ’most got run over by a sleigh. He 
was going “ knee-hacket ” and didn’t see where he 
was going to, and went like lightning right between 
the horses’ legs, and didn’t hurt him a bit. 

Last night when the moon shone the teachers let 
us go out, and they went, too, and some of their 
wives and some girls. Oh, if we didn’t have the 
fun! We had a great horse-sled, and we’d drag 
it ’way up to the top, and then pile in. Teachers 
and boys and women and girls, all together, and 
away we’d go. Once it ’most tipped over. Oh, 
I never did see anything scream so loud as girls can 
when they’re scared? I wish ’twould be winter 
longer than it is. 

We have a Debating Society. And the question 
we had last was, “ Which is the best, Summer or 
Winter? ” And we got so fast for talking, and 
kept interrupting so, the teacher told the Sum¬ 
mers to go on one side and the Winters on the 
other, and then take turns firing at each other, 
one shot at a time. And Dorry was chosen Re- 


THE DEBATING SOCIETY 


213 


porter to take notes, but I don’t know as you 
can read them, he was in such a hurry. 

“ In summer you can fly kites. 

“ In winter you can skate. 

“ In summer you have longer time to play. 

“ In winter you have best fun coasting evenings. 

“ In summer you can drive hoop and sail boats. 

“ In winter you can snow-ball it and have darings. 

“ In summer you can go in swimming, and play 
ball. 

“ In winter you can coast and make snow-forts. 

“ In summer you can go a fishing. 

“ So you can in winter, with pickerel traps to 
catch pickerel and perch on the ponds, and on rivers. 
When the fish come up, you can make a hole in the 
ice and set a light to draw ’em, and then take a jobber 
and job ’em as fast as you’re a mind to. 

“ In summer you can go take a sail. 

“ In winter you can go take a sleigh-ride. 

“ In summer you don’t freeze to death. 

“ In winter you don’t get sunstruck. 

“ In summer you see green trees and flowers and 
hear the birds sing. 


214 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


“ In winter the snow falling looks pretty as green 
leaves, and so do the icicles on the branches, when 
the sun shines, and we can hear the sleigh-bells 
jingle. 

“ In summer you have green peas and fruit, and 
huckleberries and other berries. 

“ In winter you have molasses candy and pop¬ 
corn and mince-pies and preserves and a good many 
more roast turkeys, (another boy interrupting) and 
all kinds of everything put up air-tight! 

(Teacher.) Order, order, gentlemen. One shot 
at a time. 

“ In summer you have Independence Day, and 
that’s the best day there is. For if it hadn’t been 
for that, we should have to mind Queen Victoria. 

“ In winter you have Thanksgiving Day and 
Forefather’s Day and Christmas and Happy New- 
Year Day and the Twenty-second of February, 
and that’s Washington’s Birthday. And if it hadn’t 
been for that we should have to mind Queen Vic¬ 
toria.” 

When the time was up the teacher told all that 
had changed their minds to change their sides, 


SUMMERS AND WINTERS 


215 


and some of the Summers came over to ours, but 
the Winters all stayed. Then the teacher made 
some remarks, and said how glad we ought to be 
that there were different kinds of fun and beauti¬ 
ful things all the year round. Bubby Short says 
he’s sure he’s glad, for if a feller couldn’t have fun, 
what would he do? After we got outdoors, the 
summer ones that didn’t go over hollered out to the 
other ones that did, “ Ho! ho! Winter-killed! Win¬ 
ter-killed! ’Fore I’d be Winter-killed! Frost¬ 
bit! Frost-bit! ’Fore I’d be Frost-bit! ” 

I should like to see my sister’s blue boots. I am 
very careful when I go a skating. There isn’t any 
spring-hole in our pond. I don’t know where my 
handkerchiefs go to. 

Your affectionate grandson, 

William Henry. 

P. S. Don’t keep awake. I’lllookout. Bubby 
Short’s folks write just so to him. And Dorry’s. 
I wonder what makes everybody think boys want 
to be drowned? 

The boys must have been much interested in that 
“ Debating Society.” When William Henry was 


216 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


at home, he frequently started a question, and called 
upon all to take sides. 

Georgiana to William Henry . 

My dear Brother: 

Yesterday I went to Aunt Phebe’s to eat supper, 
and had on my light blue boots, Uncle Jacob 
brought me when he went away. He dragged me 
over because ’twas snowing, for he said the party 
couldn’t be put off because they had got all ready. 
But the party wasn’t anybody but me, but he’s all 
the time funning. Aunt Phebe’s little Tommy he 
had some new rubber boots, but they didn’t get 
there till after supper, and then ’twas ’most his bed¬ 
time. But he got into the boots and walked all 
round with them after his nightgown was on, and 
the nightgown hung down all over the rubber boots. 
And when they wanted to put him in his crib he 
didn’t want to take them off, so Uncle Jacob said 
better let the boots stay on till he got asleep, and 
then pull ’em off softly as she could. Then they 
put him in the crib and let the boots stick out one 
side, without any bedclothes being put over them. 


SIX LITTLE PIGS 


217 

But we guessed he dreamed about his boots, be¬ 
cause soon as they pulled ’em a little bit, he reached 
down to the boots and held on. But when he 
got sound asleep then she pulled ’em off softly and 
stood ’em up in the corner. I carried my work with 
me, and ’twas the handkerchief that is going to be 
put in this letter. Aunt Phebe thinks some of the 
stitches are quite nice. She says you must excuse 
that one in the corner, not where your name is, but 
next one to it. The snow-storm was so bad I 
stayed all night, and they made some corn-balls, 
and Uncle Jacob passed them round to me first, be¬ 
cause I was the party, in the best waiter. 

And we had a good time seeing some little pigs 
that the old pig stepped on, — six little pigs, about 
as big as puppies, that had little tails, and she 
wouldn’t take a mite of care of them. She won’t 
let them get close up to her to keep warm, and keeps 
a stepping on ’em all the time, and broke one’s leg. 
She’s a horrid old pig, and Uncle Jacob was afraid 
they might freeze to death in the night, and Aunt 
Phebe found a basket, a quite large basket, and put 
some cotton-wool in it. Then put in the pigs. 



218 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

♦ 

When ’twas bedtime, some bricks were put on the 
stove, and then he put the basket with the little 
pigs in it on top of the bricks, but put ashes on the 
fire first, so they could keep warm all night. And 
in the night they kept him awake, making little 
squealy noises, and he thought the fire would get 
hot and roast them, and once one climbed up over 
and tumbled down on to the floor and ’most killed 
himself so he died afterwards. And he says he feels 
very sleepy to-day, watching with the little pigs all 
night. For soon as ’twas daylight, and before, too, 
Tommy jumped out and cried to have his rubber 
boots took into bed with him, and then the roosters 
crowed so loud in the hen-house close to his bed¬ 
room window that he couldn’t take a nap. He told 
me to send to you in my letter a question to talk 
about where you did about summer and winter. 
Why do roosters crow in the morning? 

Two of the little pigs were dead in the morning, 
beside that one that killed itself dropping down, 
and now two more are dead. She is keeping this 
last one in a warm place, for they don’t dare to let 
it go into the pig-sty, for fear she would step on it 


WANTS TO KNOW 


219 


or eat it up, for he says she’s worse than a cannibal. 
But I don’t know what that is. He says they kill 
men and eat them alive, but I guess he’s funning. 
She dips a sponge in milk and lets that last little 
pig suck that sponge. 

Grandmother wants to know if little Rosy has 
got any good warm mittens. Wants to know if 
Mr. Skyblue has. And you must count your hand¬ 
kerchiefs every week, she says. Little Tommy 
went out with his rubber boots, and waded ’way 
into such a deep snow-bank he couldn’t get himself 
out, and when they lifted him up they lifted him 
right out of his rubber boots. Then he cried. 
Tommy’s cut off a piece of his own hair. 

Your affectionate sister, 

Georgiana. 

William Henry to his Sister. 

My dear Sister: 

You can tell Grandmother that Lame Betsy knit 
a pair for Gapper Skyblue, blue ones with white 
spots, and little Rosy has got an old pair. You are 


220 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

a very good little girl to hem handkerchiefs. I 
think you hemmed that one very well. It came 
last night, and we looked for that long stitch to 
excuse it, and Dorry said it ought to be, for he 
guessed that was the stitch that saved nine. When 
the letter came, Dorry and Bubby Short and Old 
Wonder Boy and I were sitting together, studying. 
When I read about the pigs, I tell you if they didn’t 
laugh! And when that little piggy dropped out 
of the basket Bubby Short dropped down on the 
floor and laughed so loud we had to stop him. Dorry 
said, “ Let’s play have a Debating Society, and take 
Uncle Jacob’s question.” And we did. First Old 
Wonder Boy stood up. And he said they crowed 
in the morning to tell people ’twas time to get up 
and to let everybody know they themselves were 
up and stirring about. Said he’d lain awake morn¬ 
ings, down in Jersey, and listened and heard ’em 
say just as plain as day. “ I’m up and you ought 
to, too! And you ought to, too! ” 

Then Bubby Short stood up and said he thought 
they were telling the other ones to keep in their 
own yards, and not be flying over where they didn’t 


WHY THEY CROW 


221 


belong. Said he’d lain awake in the morning and 
heard ’em say, just as plain as day, “ If you do, I’ll 
give it to you! I’ll give it to you-oo-oo-oo! ” 

But a little chap that had come to hear what was 
going on said ’twas more likely they were daring 
each other to come on and fight. For he’d lain 
awake in the morning and listened and heard ’em 
say, “ Come on if you dare, for I can whip you- 
00-00! ” 

Then ’twas my turn, and I stood up and said I 
guessed the best crower kept a crowing school, and 
was showing all the young ones how to scale up and 
down, same as the singing-master did. For I’d 
lain awake in the morning and heard first the old one 
crow, and then the little ones try to. And heard the 
old one say, just as plain as day, “ Open your mouth 
wide and do as I do! Do as I do! ” and then the 
young ones say, “ Can’t quite do so! Can’t quite 
do so! ” 

Dorry said he never was wide awake enough 
in the morning to hear what anybody said, but he’d 
always understood they were talking about the 
weather, and giving the hens their orders for the 


222 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


day, telling which to lay and which to set, and where 
the good places were to steal nests, and where there’d 
been anything planted they could scratch up again, 
and how to bring up their chickens, and to look out 
and not hatch ducks’ eggs. 

The teacher opened the door then to see if we were 



all studying our lessons, so the Debating Society 
stopped. 

Should you like to hear about our going to take 
a great big sleigh-ride? The whole school went 
together in great big sleighs with four horses. We 
had flags flying, and I tell you if ’twasn’t a bully go! 
We went ten miles. We went by a good many 
schoolhouses, where the boys were out, and they’d 
up and hurrah, and then we’d hurrah back again. 
And one lot of fellers, if they didn’t let the snow¬ 
balls fly at us! And we wanted our driver to stop, 





THE SLEIGH-RIDE 


223 


and let us give it to ’em good. But he wouldn’t do 
it. One little chap hung his sled on behind and 
couldn’t get it unhitched again, for some of our 
fellers kept hold, and we carried him off more than 
a mile. Then he began to cry. Then the teacher 
heard him, and had the sleigh stopped, and took 
him in, and he went all the way with us. He lost his 
mittens trying to unhitch it, and his hands ached, 
but he made believe laugh, and we put him down in 
the bottom to warm ’em in the hay. We ’most ran 
over an old beggar-woman, in one place between 
two drifts, where there wasn’t very much room to 
turn out. I guess she was deaf. We all stood up 
and shouted and bawled at her and the driver held 
’em in tight. And just as their noses almost 
touched her she looked round, and then she was so 
scared she didn’t know what to do, but just stood 
still to let herself be run over. But the driver hol¬ 
lered and made signs for her to stand close up to 
the drift, and then there’d be room enough. 

When I got home I found my bundle and the tin 
box rolled up in that new jacket, with all that good 
jelly in it. Old Wonder Boy peeped in and says he, 


224 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


“ Oh, there’s quite some jelly in there, isn’t there? ” 
He says down in Jersey they make nice quince- 
jelly out of apple-parings, and said ’twas true, for 
he’d eaten some. Dorry said he knew that was 
common in Ireland, but never knew ’twas done in 
this country. Dorry says you must keep us posted 
about the last of the piggies. Keep your pretty 
blue boots nice for Brother Billy to see, won’t you? 
Thank you for hemming that pretty handkerchief. 
I’ve counted my handkerchiefs a good many times, 
but counting ’em don’t make any difference. 

From you affectionate brother, 

William Henry. 

William Henry to his Grandmother. 

My dear Grandmother: 

This is only a short letter that I am going to write 
to you, because I don’t feel like writing any. But 
when I don’t write, then you think I have the mea¬ 
sles, else drowned in the pond, and I’ll write a little, 
but I feel so sober I don’t feel like writing very much. 
I suppose you will say, — what are you feeling so 



OUT WITH DORRY 


225 


sober about? Well, it seems if I didn’t have any 
fun now, for Dorry and I we’ve got mad at each 
other. And he don’t hardly speak to me, and I 
don’t to him either; and if he don’t want to, he 
needn’t, for I don’t mean to be fooling round him, 
and trying to get him to, if he don’t want to. 

Last night we all went out to coast, and the teach¬ 
ers and a good many ladies and girls, and we were 



going to see which was the champion sled. But 
something else happened first. The top of the 
hill was all bare, and before they all got there some 
of the fellers were scuffling together for fun, and 
Dorry and I we tried to take each other down. 
First of it ’twas all in fun, but then it got more in 
earnest, and he hit me in the face so hard it made 
me mad, and I hit him and he got mad, too. 

Then we began to coast, for the people had all 
got there. Dorry’s and mine were the two swift- 



226 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


est ones, and we kept near each other, but his 
slewed round some, and he said I hit it with my foot 
he guessed, and then we had some words, and I 
don’t know what we did both say; but now we keep 
away from each other, and it seems so funny I 
don’t know what to do. The teacher asked me to 
go over to the stable to-day, for he lost a bunch of 
compositions and thought they might have dropped 
out of his pocket, when we went to take that sleigh- 
ride. And I was just going to say, “ Come on, Old 
Dorrymas! ” before I thought. But I didn’t say 
it. 

But ’tis the funniest in the morning. This morn¬ 
ing I waked up early, and he was fast asleep, and 
I thought, Now you’ll catch it, old fellow, and was 
just a going to pull his hair; but in a minute I re¬ 
membered. Then I dressed myself and thought 
I would take a walk out. I went just as softly by 
his bed and stood still there a minute and set out to 
give a little pull, for I don’t feel half so mad as I did 
the first of it, but was afraid he did. So I went 
outdoors and looked round. Went as far as the 
Two Betsys’ Shop and was going by, but The Other 


SPICEY 


22 7 


Betsy stood at the door shaking a mat, and called 
to me, “ Billy, where are you going to? ” 

“ Only looking round,” I said. She told me to 
come in and warm me, and I thought I would go 
in just a minute or two. Lame Betsy was frying 
flapjacks in a spider, a little mite of a spider, for 
breakfast. She spread butter on one and made 
me take it to eat in a saucer, and I never tasted of 
a better flapjack. There was a cinnamon-colored 
jacket hanging on the chairback, and I said, “ Why, 
that’s Spicey’s jacket! ” “ Who? ” they cried out 

both together. Then I called him by his right 
name, Jim Mills. He’s some relation to them, and 
his mother isn’t well enough to mend all his clothes, 
so Lame Betsy does it for nothing. He earns money 
to pay for his schooling, and he wants to go to col¬ 
lege, and they don’t doubt he will. They said he 
was the best boy that ever was. His mother doesn’t 
have anybody but him to do things for her, only his 
little sister about the size of my little sister. He 
makes the fires and cuts wood and splits kindling, 
and looks into the buttery to see when the things are 
empty, and never waits to be told. When they 


228 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


talked about him they both talked together, and 
Lame Betsy let one spiderful burn, forgetting to 
turn ’em over time enough. 

When I was coming away they said, “ Where’s 
Dorry? I thought you two always kept together.” 
For we did always go to buy things together. Then 
I told her a little, but not all about it. 

“ Oh, make up! make up! ” they said. “ Make 
up and be friends again! ” I’m willing to make up 
if he is. But I don’t mean to be the first one to 
make up. 

From your affectionate grandson, 

William Henry. 

William Henry to his Grandmother. 

My dear Grandmother: 

I guess you’ll think ’tis funny, getting another 
letter again from me so soon, but I’m in a hurry to 
have my father send me some money to have my 
skates mended; ask him if he won’t please to send 
me thirty-three cents, and we two have made up 
again and I thought you would like to know. It 


STILL OUT WITH DORRY 229 

had been ’most three days, and we hadn’t been 
anywhere together, or spoken hardly, and I hadn’t 
looked him in the eye, or he me. Old Wonder Boy 
he wanted to keep round me all the time, and have 
double-runner together. He knew we two hadn’t 
been such chums as we used to be, so he came up 
to me and said, “ Billy, I think that Dorry’s a mean 
sort of a chap, don’t you? ” 

“ No, I don’t,” I said. “ He don’t know what 
’tis to be mean! ” For I wasn’t going to have him 
coming any Jersey over me! 

“ Oh, you needn’t be so spunky about it! ” says 
he. 

“ I ain’t spunky! ” says I. 

Then I went into the schoolroom, to study over 
my Latin Grammar before school began, and sat 
down amongst the boys that were all crowding 
round the stove. And I was studying away, and 
didn’t mind ’em fooling round me, for I’d lost one 
mark day before, and didn’t mean to lose any more, 
for you know what my father promised me, if my 
next Report improved much. And while I was sit¬ 
ting there, studying away, and drying my feet, for 


230 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

we’d been having darings, and W. B. he stumped 
me to jump on a place where ’twas cracking, and 
I went in over tops of boots and wet my feet sop¬ 
ping wet. And I didn’t notice at first, for I wasn’t 
looking round much, but looking straight down on 
my Latin Grammar, and didn’t notice that ’most 
all the boys had gone out. Only about half a dozen 
left, and one of ’em was Dorry, and he sat to the 
right of me, about a yard off, studying his lesson. 
Then another boy went out, and then another, and 
by and by every one of them was gone, and left us 

two sitting there. Oh, we sat just as still! I kept 

« 

my head down, and we made believe think of noth¬ 
ing but just the lesson. First thing I knew he 
moved, and I looked up, and there was Dorry look¬ 
ing me right in the eye! And held out his hand — 
“ How are you, Sweet William? ” says he, and 
laughed some. Then I clapped my hand on his 
shoulder, “ Old Dorrymas, how are you? ” says I. 
And so you see we got over it then, right away. 

Dorry says he wasn’t asleep that morning, when 
I stood there, only making believe. Said he wished 
I’d pull, then he was going to pull, too, and wouldn’t 


FRIENDS AGAIN 


231 


that been a funny way to make up, pulling hair? 
He’s had a letter from Tom Cush and he’s got 
home, but is going away again, for he means to be 
a regular sailor and get to be captain of a great 
ship. He’s coming here next week. I hope you 
won’t forget that thirty-three. I’d just as lives have 
fifty, and that would come better in the letter, don’t 
you believe it would? That photograph saloon 
has just gone by, and the boys are running down 
to the road to chase it. When Dorry and I sat 
there by the stove, it made me remember what 
Uncle Jacob said about our picture. 

Your affectionate grandson, 

William Henry. 

William Henry to his Grandmother. 

My dear Grandmother: 

The reason that I’ve kept so long without writing 
is because I’ve had to do so many things. We’ve 
been speaking dialogues and coasting and daring 
and snow-balling, and then we’ve had to review 
and review and review, because ’tis the last of the 


232 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

term, and he says he believes in reviews more than 
the first time we get it. I tell you, the ones that 
didn’t get them the first time are bad off now. I 
wish now I’d begun at the first of it and got every 
one of mine perfect, then I should have easier time. 
The coast is wearing off some, and we carry water 
up and pour on it, and let it freeze, and throw snow 
on. Now ’tis moonshiny nights, the teacher lets 
all the “ perfects ” go out to coast an hour. Some¬ 
times I get out. And guess where Bubby Short 
and Dorry and I are going to-night! Now you can’t 
guess, I know you can’t. To a party! Now where 
do you suppose the party is to be? You can’t guess 
that, either. In this town. And not very far from 
this schoolhouse. Somebody you’ve heard of. 
Two somebodies you’ve heard of. Now don’t you 
know? The Two Betsys! Suppose you’ll think 
’tis funny for them to have a party. But they’re 
not a going to have it themselves. Now I’ll tell you, 
and not make you guess any more. 

You know I told you Tom Cush was coming. He 
came to-day. He’s grown just as tall and as fat and 
as black and has some small whiskers. I didn’t 


TOM CUSH’S VISIT 


233 


know ’twas Tom Cush when I first looked at him. 
Bubby Short asked me what man that was talking 
with Dorry, and I said I didn’t know, but after¬ 
wards we found out. He didn’t know me either. 
Says I’m a staving great fellow. He gave Dorry 
a ruler made of twelve different kinds of wood, some 
light, some dark, brought from famous places. And 
gave Bubby Short and me a four-blader, white han¬ 
dled. He’s got a fur cap and fur gloves, and is 
’most as tall as Uncle Jacob. He told Dorry that 
he thought if he didn’t come back here and see every¬ 
body, he should feel like a sneak all the rest of his 
life. 

We three went down to The Two Betsys’ Shop 
with him, and when he saw it, he said, “ Why, is 
that the same old shop? It don’t look much big¬ 
ger than a henhouse! ” Says he could put about a 
thousand like it into one big church he saw away. 
Said he shouldn’t dare to climb up into the apple- 
tree for fear he should break it down. Said he’d 
seen trees high as a liberty-pole. And when he saw 
where he used to creep through the rails, he couldn’t 
believe he ever did go through such a little place, 


234 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


and tried to, but couldn’t do it. So he took a run 
and jumped over, and we after him, all but Bubby 
Short. We took down the top one for him. 

The Two Betsys didn’t know him at first, not till 
we told them. Dorry said, “ Here’s a little boy 
wants to buy a stick of candy.” Then Tom said 



he guessed he’d take the whole bottleful. And he 
took out a silver half a dollar, and threw it down, 
but wouldn’t take any change back, and then treated 
us all, and a lot of little chaps that stood there star¬ 
ing. Lame Betsy said, “ Wal, I never! ” and The 
Other Betsy said, “ Now, did you ever? Now, 
who’d believe ’twas the same boy! ” And Tom said 
he hoped ’twasn’t exactly, for he didn’t think much 










































GENEROUS TOM 


235 


of that Tom Cush that used to be round here. Com¬ 
ing back he told us he was going to stay till in the 
evening, and have a supper at the Two Betsys’, 
us four together, but not let them know till we got 
there. He’s going to carry the things. We went to 
see Gapper Skyblue, and Tom bought every bit of 
his molasses candy, and about all the seed-cakes. 
When I write another letter, then you’ll know about 
the party. 

Your affectionate grandson, 

William Henry. 

P. S. Do you think my father would let me go 
to sea? 


William Henry to his Grandmother. 

My Dear Grandmother: 

We had it and they didn’t know anything about 
it till we got there, and then they didn’t know what 
we came for. Guess who was there besides us four! 
Gapper Skyblue and little Rosy. Tom invited 
them. We left the bundles inside and walked in. 
Not to the shop, but to the room back, where they 


236 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


stay. They told us, “ Do sit up to the fire, for ’tis 
a proper cold day.” They’d got their tea a warm¬ 
ing in a little round tea-pot, a black one, and their 
dishes on a little round table, pulled up close to 
Lame Betsy; seemed just like my sister, when she 
has company, playing supper. The Other Betsy, 
she was holding a skein of yarn for Lame Betsy to 
wind, and said their yarn-winders were come apart. 
Dorry said, “ Billy, let’s you and I make some yarn- 
winders! ” Now what do you think we made them 
out of ? Out of ourselves! We stood back to back, 
with our elbows touching our sides, and our arms 
sticking out, and our thumbs sticking up. Then 
Dorry told her to put on her yarn, and we turned 
ourselves round, like yarn-winders: 

Pretty soon Gapper Skyblue and Rosy came. 
Then we brought in the bundles and let ’em know 
what was up, and they didn’t know what to say. 
All they could say was, “ Wal, I never! ” and “ Now, 
did you ever? ” 

The Other Betsy said if they were having a party 
they must smart themselves up some. So she got 
out their other caps, with white ruffles, and put on 


THE PARTY 


237 


her handkerchief with a bunch of flowers in the back 
corner, but put a black silk cape on Lame Betsy that 
had a muslin ruffle round it, or lace, or I don’t know 
what, and a clean collar, that she worked herself, 
when she was a young lady, and a bow of ribbon, that 
she used to wear to parties, wide ribbon, striped, 
green and yellow, or pink, I can’t tell, and both of 
’em clean aprons, figured aprons, — calico, I think 
like enough, — with the creases all in ’em, and 
strings tied in front. I tell you if the Two Betsys 
didn’t look tiptop! Then they unset that little 
round table, and we dragged out the great big one, 
that hadn’t been used for seventeen years. The 
Other Betsy’s grandfather had it, when he was first 
married. When ’tisn’t a table, ’tis tipped up to 
make into a chair, and had more legs than a spider. 
Little Rosy helped set the table. She never went 
to a party before. 

Oh, but you ought to ’ve seen the plates! You 
know your pie-plates? Well, these were just like 
them. All white, with scalloped edges, blue scal¬ 
loped edges. Only no bigger round than the top 
of your tin dipper. The knives and forks — two- 





238 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


prongers — had green handles. And the sugar- 
bowl and cream-pitcher were dark blue. Tom 
brought a good deal of sugar, all in white lumps, and 
a can of milk. He bought pies and jumbles and 
turn-overs, and ginger-snaps and egg-crackers and 
cake and bread at the bake-house, and butter 
and cheese and Bologna sausage — I can’t bear 
Bologna sausage — and some oranges, that he 
brought home from sea. And the sweetest jelly you 
ever saw! Don’t know what ’tis made of, but they 
call it guava jelly, and comes in little boxes. I 
believe I could eat twenty boxes of that kind of 
jelly, if I could get it. Dorry says he don’t doubt 
they make it out of apple-parings down in Jersey. 

The Other Betsy stood up in a chair and took down 
her best china cups and saucers, that used to be her 
grandmother’s, and hadn’t been took down for a 
good many years, and wiped the dust off. Little 
mites of things, with pictures on them. We boys 
didn’t drink tea, only Tom Cush; we had milk in 
mugs. Mine was a tall, slim one, not much bigger 
round than an inkstand, and had pine-trees on it, 
blue pine-trees. Dorry had a china one that was 





AT SUPPER 


239 


about as clear as glass, that Lame Betsy’s brother 
brought home when he went captain, and Bubby 
Short’s had “ A gift of affection ” on it. That was 
one her little niece used to drink out of that died 
afterwards, when she was very little. 

I tell you if that supper-table didn’t look like a 
supper-table when ’twas all ready! They set Lame 
Betsy at the head of the table, because she couldn’t 
get up, and Dorry said the one at the head must 
never get up, for it wasn’t polite. We took her 
right up in her chair to set her there. Then there 
was some fun quarreling which should sit at her 
right hand, because that is a seat of honor. Tom 
said Gapper ought to, for he was the oldest. But he 
said it ought to be Tom, because he was the most 
like company. But at last she said ’twouldn’t make 
any difference, because she was left-handed. The 
Other Betsy brought some twisted doughnuts out. 

Now I’ll tell you how we sat. 

Lame Betsy at the head, and the Other Betsy 
at the other end; Gapper Skyblue and Rosy and 
Bubby Short on the right side, and Tom and Dorry 
and I on the left. And if we didn’t have a bully 


240 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


time! The Two Betsys and Gapper used to know 
each other, and to go to school together, and they 
told such funny stories, made us die a laughing, and 
when I get home you’ll hear some. Then Gapper 
told Tom Cush that now he was a sailor he ought 
to spin us a yarn. When I come home I’ll tell you 
the yarn Tom spun. ’Twas all about an alligator 
he saw, and about going near it in a boat, and what 
the Arabs did, and what he did, and what the alliga¬ 
tor did. Wait till I come, then you’ll hear about 
it. Both Betsys kept putting down their knife and 
fork, and looking up at him, just as scared, and kept 
saying, “ Wal, I never! ” “ Now, did you ever! ” 

Tom acted it all out. First he cleared a place for 
a river. Then he took a twisted doughnut for the 
alligator and a ginger-snap for a boat. I’ll tell you 
about it sometime. Guess ’twasn’t all true, for you 
can put anything you’ve a mind to in a yarn. He 
told us about the beautiful birds, and when I told 
him about one my sister used to have, he said he’d 
bring her home a Java sparrow. 

Then he told us about drinking “ Hopshe! ” I’ll 
tell how, and I want all of you to try it. 


“ HOPSHE! 


241 


Now suppose Hannah Jane was the one to try 
it. 

First, she takes a tumbler of water in her hand, 
then you all say together, Hannah Jane and all, 
quite fast,— 

“ A blackbird sat on a swinging limb. 

He looked at me and I at him. 

Once so merrily, — Hopshe! 

Twice so merrily, — Hopshe! 

Thrice so merrily, — Hopshe! ” 

Now I shall tell where the fun comes in. 

While all the rest say, “ Once so merrily,” Han¬ 
nah Jane must drink one swallow quick enough to 
say the “ Hopshe! ” with them. Then another 
swallow while they say, “ Twice so merrily,” and 

another while they say, “ Thrice so merrily,” and be 
ready to say the “ Hopshe ” with them, every time. 
We tried it, and I tell you if the “ Hopshes ” didn’t 
come in all sorts of funny ways! The Two Betsys 
told about some funny tricks they used to try, to 
see who was going to be their beau. 

From your affectionate grandson, 

William Henry. 


242 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


P. S. I saw a dollar bill in Gapper Skyblue’s 
hand after Tom Cush bade him good-by. Dorry 
says how do I know but ’twas more than a dollar 
bill, and I don’t. 

W. H. 

There was a good deal left for the Two Betsys 
to eat afterwards. I had a letter from Mr. Fry. 

William Henry to Aunt Phebe. 

Dear Aunt: 

There is going to be a dancing-school, and Dorry’s 
mother wants him to go, and he says he guesses 
he shall, so he may know what to do when he goes 
to parties, and his cousin Arthur, that doesn’t go to 
this school, says ’tis bully when you’ve learned 
how. Please ask my grandmother if I may go if 
I want to. Dorry wants me to if he does, he says, 
and Bubby Short says he means to, too, if we two 
do, if his mother’ll let him. Dorry’s mother says 
we shall get very good manners there, and learn how 
to walk into a room. I know how now to walk into 
a room, I told him, walk right in. But he says his 


BILLY’S MAP 


243 


mother means to enter a room, and there’s more to 
it than walking right in. He don’t mean an empty 
room, but company and all that. I guess I should 
be scared to go, the first of it; I guess I should be 
bashful, but Dorry’s cousin says you get over that 
when you’re used to it. Good many fellers are go¬ 
ing. Mr. Augustus, and Old Wonder Boy, and Mr. 
O’Shirk. Now I suppose you can’t think who that 
is! Don’t you know that one I wrote about, that 
kicked and didn’t pay, and that wouldn’t help water 
the course? The great boys picked out that name 
for him, Mr. O’Shirk. The O stands for owe, and 
Shirk stands for itself. I send home a map to my 
grandmother, I’ve just been making, and I tried 
hard as I could to do it right, and I hope she will 
excuse mistakes, for I never made one before. ’Tis 
the United States. Old Wonder Boy says he should 
thought I’d stretched out “ Yankee Land ” a little 
bigger. He calls the New England States “ Yankee 
Land.” And he says they make a mighty poor 
show on the map. But Mr. Augustus told him the 
brains of the whole country were kept in a little 
place up top, same as in folks. So W. B. kept still 


244 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


till next time. Dorry said he’d heard of folks 
going out of the world into Jersey. If I go to 
dancing-school, I should like to have a bosom shirt, 
and quite a stylish bow. I think I’m big enough, 
don’t you, for bosom shirts? I had perfect this 
forenoon in all. I’ve lost that pair of spotted mit¬ 
tens, and I don’t know where, I’m sure. I know I 
put them in my pocket. My hands get just as 
numb now with cold! Seems as if things in my 
pockets got alive and jumped out. I was clapping 
’em and blowing ’em this morning, and that good, 
tiptop Wedding Cake teacher told me to come in his 
house, and his wife found some old gloves of his. 
I never saw a better lady than she is. When she 
meets us she smiles and says, “ How do you do, Wil¬ 
liam Henry? ” or Dorry, or whatever boy it is. And 
when W. B, was sick one day she took care of him. 
And she asks us to call and see her, and says she 
likes boys! Dorry says he’s willing to wipe his 
feet till he wears a hole in the mat, before he goes 
in her house. For she don’t keep eying your boots. 
Says he has seen women brush up a feller’s mud 
right before his face and eyes. My hair grows 


FROM AUNT PHEBE 


245 


darker-colored now. And my freckles have ’most 
faded out the color of my face. I’m glad of it. 

From your affectionate nephew, 

William Henry. 

Aunt Phebe to William Henry. 

My dear Billy: 

We are very much pleased indeed with your map. 
Dear me, how the United States have altered since 
they were young, same as the rest of us! That 
western part used to be all Territory. You couldn’t 
have done anything to please your grandmother bet¬ 
ter. She’s hung it up in the front room, between 
Napoleon and the Mourning Piece, and thinks every¬ 
thing of it. Everybody that comes in she says, 
“ Should you like to see the map my little grandson 
made, — my little Billy? ” You’ll always be her 
little Billy. She don’t seem to think you are grow¬ 
ing up so fast. Then she throws a shawl over her 
head, and trots across the entry and opens the shut¬ 
ters, and then she’ll say, “ Pretty good for a little 
boy.” And tells which is Maine, and which is New 



246 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

York, and points out the little arrow and the printed 
capital letters. Folks admire fast as they can, for 
that room is cold as a barn, winters. The last one 
she took in was the minister. Your grandmother 
sets a sight o’ store by you. She’s proud of you, 
Billy, and you must always act so as to give her 
reason to be, and never bring her pride to shame. 

We are willing you should go. At first she was 
rather against it, though she says she always meant 
you should learn to take the steps when you got 
old enough, but she was afraid it might tend to 
making you light-headed, and to unsteady your 
mind. This was the other night when we were 
talking it over in your kitchen, sitting round the 
fire. Somehow we get in there about every eve¬ 
ning. Does seem so good to see the blaze. Your 
father said if a boy had common sense he’d keep his 
balance anywhere, and if dancing-school could spoil 
a fellow, he wasn’t worth spoiling, worth keeping, 
I mean. I said I thought it might tend to keep you 
from toeing in, and being clumsy in your motions. 
Your Uncle J. said he didn’t think ’twas worth while 
worrying about our Billy getting spoiled going to 


“NOT TOO MUCH! 


247 


dancing-school, or anybody’s Billy, without ’twas 
some dandified coot. “ Make the head right and 
the heart right,” says he, “ and let the feet go, — 
if they want to.” So you see, Billy, we expect your 
head’s right and your heart’s right. Are they? 

The girls and I have turned to and cut and made 
you a couple of bosom shirts and three bows, for of 
course you will have to dress rather different, and 
think a little more about your looks. But not too 
much, Billy! Not too much! And don’t for gra¬ 
cious sake ever get the notion that you’re good- 
looking! Don’t stick a breastpin in that shirt- 
bosom and go about with a strut! I don’t know 
what I hadn’t as soon see as see a vain young man. 
I do believe if I were to look out, and you should be 
coming up my front yard gravel path with a strut, 
or any sort of dandified airs, I should shut the door 
in your face. Much as I set by you, I really be¬ 
lieve I should. Lor! what are good looks? What 
are you laying out to make of yourself? That’s the 
question. Freckles are not so bad as vanity. Any- 
body’d thing I was a minister’s wife, the way I talk. 
But, Billy, you haven’t got any mother, and I do 



248 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


think so much of you! ’Twould break my heart 
to see you grow up into one of those spick-and-span 
fellers, that are all made up of a bow and a scrape 
and a genteel smile! Though I don’t think there’s 
much danger, for common sense runs in the family. 
No need to go with muddy boots, though, or linty, 
or have your bow upside down. You’ve always 
been more inclined that way. Fact is, I want you 
should be just right. I haven’t a minute’s more 
time to write. Your Uncle J. has promised to finish 
this. 

Dear Cousin Billy: 

This is Lucy Maria writing. The blacksmith 
sent word he was waiting to sharpen the colt, and 
Father had to go. He’s glad of it, because he never 
likes to write letters. I’m glad you are going to 
dancing-school. Learn all the new steps you can, 
so as to show us how they’re done. Hannah Jane’s 
beau has just been here. He lives six miles off, 
close by where we went once to a clam-bake, when 
Dorry was here. Georgiana’s great doll, Seraphine, 
is engaged to a young officer across the road. He 


FROM LUCY MARIA 


249 


was in the war, and draws a pension of a cent a week. 
The engagement isn’t out yet, but the family have 
known it several days, and he has been invited to 
tea. He wore his best uniform. Seraphine is in¬ 
vited over there, and Georgie is making her a span¬ 
gled dress to wear. The wedding is to come off next 

month. I do wish I could think of more news. 

< 

Father is the best hand to write news, if you can 
only get him at it. Once when I was away, he 
wrote me a letter and told me what they had for 
dinner, and what everybody was doing, and how 
many kittens the cat had, and how much the calf 
weighed, and what Tommy said, and seemed ’most 
as if I’d been home and seen them. Be sure and 
write how you get along at dancing-school, and what 
the girls wear. 

Your affectionate cousin, 

Lucy Maria. 

William Henry to Aunt Phebe. 

My dear Aunt: 

Thank you for the bosom shirts and the ones 
that helped make them. They’ve come. I like 


250 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

them very much and the bows, too. They’re made 
right. I lent Bubby Short one bow. His box 
hadn’t come. He kept running to the expressman’s 
about every minute. We began to go last night. 
If we miss any questions to-day, we shall have to 
stay away next night. That’s going to be the rule. 
Oh, you ought to’ve seen Dorry and me at it with 
the soap and towels, getting ready! We scrubbed 
our faces real bright and shining, and he said he 
felt like a walking jack-o’-lantern. I bought some 
slippers and had to put some cotton-wool in both 
the toes of ’em to jam my heels out where they be¬ 
longed to. I don’t like to wear slippers. My 
bosom shirt sets bully, and I bought a linen-finish 
paper collar. I haven’t got any breastpin. I don’t 
think I’m good-looking. Dorry doesn’t, either. 
I know he don’t. That’s girls’ business. We had 
to buy some gloves, because his cousin said the 
girls wore white ones, and nice things, and ’twouldn’t 
do if we didn’t. Yellow-brownish ones we got, so 
as to keep clean longer. But trying on, they split 
in good many places, our fingers were so damp, 
washing ’em so long. Lame Betsy is going to sew 


THE DANCING SCHOOL 


251 


the holes up. When we got there, we didn’t dare 
to go in, first of it, but stood peeking in the door, and 
by and by Old Wonder Boy gave me a shove and 
made me tumble in. I jumped up quick, but there 
was a great long row of girls, and they all went, 
“ Tee hee hee! tee hee hee! ” Then Mr. Tornero 
stamped and put us in the gentlemen’s row. Then 
both rows had to stand up and take positions, and 
put one heel in the hollow of t’other foot, and then 
t’other heel in that one’s hollow, and make bows 
and twist different ways. And right in front was 
a whole row of girls, all looking. But they made 
mistakes theirselves sometimes. 

First thing we learned the graces, and that is to 
bend ’way over sideways, with one hand up in the 
air, and the other ’most way down to the floor, 
then shift about on t’other tack, then come down 
on one knee, with one hand way behind, and the 
other one reached out ahead as if ’twas picking up 
something a good ways off. We have to do these 
graces to make us limberer, so to dance easier. I 
tell you ’tis mighty tittlish, keeping on one knee and 
the other toe, and reaching both ways, and looking 


252 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


up in the air. I did something funny. I’ll tell 
you, but don’t tell Grandmother. Or course ’twas 
bad, I know ’twas, made ’em all laugh, but I didn’t 
think of their all pitching over. You see I was 
at one end of the row and W. B. was next, and we 
were fixed as I said, kneeling down in that tittlish 
way, reaching out both ways, before and behind, and 
looking up, and I remembered how he shoved me into 
the room, and just gave him a little bit of a shove, 
and he pitched on to the next one, and he on to the 
next, and that one on to the next, and so that whole 
row went down, just like a row of bricks! Course 
everybody laughed, and Mr. Tornero did, too, but 
he soon stamped us still again. And then just as 
they all got still again, I kept seeing how they all 
went down, and I shut up my mouth, but all of 
a sudden that laugh shut up inside made a funny sort 
of squelching sound, and he looked at me cross and 
stamped his foot again. Now I suppose he’ll think 
I’m a bad one, just for that tumbling in and shoving 
that row down and then laughing when I was trying 
to keep in! He wants we should practise the graces 
between times, to limber us up. Dorry and I do 


DOING “ THE GRACES” 


253 


them up in our room. Guess you’d laugh if you 
could see, when we do that first part, bending over 
sideways, one hand up and one down. I tried to 
draw us, but ’tis a good deal harder drawing crooked 
boys than ’tis straight ones, so ’tisn’t a very good 
picture. The boys that go keep practising in the 
entries and everywhere, and the other ones do it to 
make fun of us, so you keep seeing twisted boys 
everywhere. Bubby Short was kneeling down out 
doors across the yard, on one knee, and I thought he 
was taking aim at something, but he said he was 
doing the graces. I must study now. Bubby Short 
got punished a real funny way at school to-day. 
I’ll tell you next time. I’m in a hurry to study now. 

Your affectionate nephew, 

William Henry. 

P. S. Dorry’s just come in. He and Bubby 
Short and I bought “ Seraphine ” some wedding 
presents and he’s done ’em up in cotton-wool, and 
they’ll come to her in a pink envelope. Dorry sent 
that red-stoned ring and I sent the blue-stoned. 
We thought they’d do for a doll’s bracelets. Bubby 


254 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


Short sends the artificial rosebud. He likes flowers, 
— he keeps a geranium. We bought the presents 
at the Two Betsys’ Shop. They said they’d do 
for bracelets. Dorry says, “ Don’t mention the 
price, for ’tisn’t likely everybody can make such 
dear presents, and might hurt their feelings.” We 
tried to make some poetry, but couldn’t think of 
but two lines: 

When you’re a gallant soldier’s wife, 

May you be happy all your life! 

Dorry says that’s enough, for she couldn’t be any 
more than happy all her life. “ Can, too! ” W. B. 
said. “ Can be good! ” “ Oh, poh! ” Bubby 

Short said; “ she can’t be happy without she’s good, 
can she? ” But I want to study my lesson now. 

W.H. 

Those bosom shirts are the best things I ever had. 

W.H. 

Although it would have been a vast sacrifice, I 
think I would have almost given my best pair of 
shoes for a chance of seeing Billy when dressed to 
go to the dancing-school. A boy in his first bosom 



DRESSING UP 


255 


shirt is such an amusing sight. You can easily pick 
one out in a crowd by his satisfied air, and stiff gait; 
by the setting back of the shoulders, and the throw¬ 
ing out of the chest, — as if that smooth, white, 
starched expanse did not set out enough of itself! 
Some have a way of looking up at gentlemen, as 
much to say, We wear bosom shirts! But of course 
those of us boys and men who have passed through 
this experience remember all about it. 

Lucy Maria to William Henry. 

Dear Cousin: 

That famous wedding came off yesterday after¬ 
noon. There were fifteen invited. I do wish I had 
time to tell you all about it. Mother made a real 
wedding-cake. Georgie has hardly slept a wink 
for a week, I do believe, thinking about it. The 
young soldier wore his epaulets, having been made 
General the day before. The bride was dressed in 
pure white, of course, with a long veil, of course, too, 
and orange blossoms, real orange blossoms that I 
made myself. The presents were spread out on the 
baby-house table. Perhaps you don’t know that 
Georgie has a baby-house. It is made of a sugar- 
box, set up on end papered with housepaper inside, 



256 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


and brown outside. It has a down below, an up¬ 
stairs, and garret. I do wish I had time to tell you 
all about the wedding, but Matilda’s a-churning, 
and I promised to part the butter and work it over, 
if she would fetch it. I do wish you could hear her 
singing away: 

“ Come, butter, come! come, butter, come! 

Peter stands at the gate, waiting for his buttered cake. 

Come, butter, come! ” 

Besides the baby-house table, the presents were laid 
on the roof of the baby-house. There were sontags, 
shoes, hats and feathers, and all sorts of clothes, the 
rosebud, your jewelry, and more besides, also 
spoons, dishes, gridirons, vases and everything they 
could possibly want, to keep house with, even to 
flatirons and a cooking-stove. The hands of the 
happy couple were fastened together, and they 
stood up (there was a pile of books behind them). 
Then the trouble was, who should be the minister? 
At last we saw that funny Dicky Willis, your old 
crony, peeping in the window, and made him come 
in and be the minister. He was just the right one 


A WEDDING 


257 


for it. He charged the bridegroom to give his wife 
everything she asked for, and keep her in dry kin¬ 
dlings, and let her have her own way, and always 
wipe his feet, and not smoke in the house, and never 
find fault; and charged her to sew on his buttons, 
and have plum-pudding often, and let him smoke 
in the house, and never want any new clothes, and 
always mind her husband, and let him bring in mud 
on his feet, and always have a smiling face, even 
if the baby-house was a-burning down over their 
heads, and then pronounced them man and wife. 
I could fill up half a dozen sheets of paper, if I had 
time, but I’m afraid of that butter. Everybody 
shook hands with them, and kissed them, and the 
wedding-cake was passed round, and then the chil¬ 
dren played 

“ Little Sally Waters, sitting in the sun, 

Crying and weeping for her lost one.” 

In the midst of everything Tommy came in with 
Georgiana’s atlas, and said he’d found “ two kick- 
cases.” He meant those two black hemispheres, 
that are pictured out in the beginning. Mother 


258 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

put a raisin in his mouth, and hushed him up. The 
happy couple have gone on a wedding tour to Su¬ 
sie Snow’s grandmother’s country seat . It is ex¬ 
pected that they will live half the time with Georgie, 
and half at the General’s headquarters. But their 
plans may be altered; this is a changing world, and 
a young couple can’t always tell what’s before them. 
I do wish you’d write how you get on at dancing- 
school, and what the great girls wear, about my age. 
O dear, what an age it is! ’Tis dreadful to think 
of! ’Most eighteen! Did you ever hear of any¬ 
body being so old? Now truly I’m ’most ashamed 
to own how old I am. Eighteen next month! 
Hush, don’t tell! Keep it private! I do wish I 
could grow backwards, and grow back into a baby- 
house if ’twere nothing but a sugar-box. I do long 
to cut my hair off and go in a long-sleeved tier, and 
I’ve a good mind to. We don’t think you made a 
very good beginning. Guess your Mr. — I can’t 
think of his name — thought there was need enough 
of your learning to enter a room. Mother’s going 
to put a note in this letter. I’ve made her promise 
not to scold you, but she’s got something particular 



UNCLE JACOB’S LETTER 259 

to say. Father will, too. I told him ’twouldbe just 
what you would like, one of his letters. Matilda 
says the butter has sent word it’s coming. Write 
soon. 

From your affectionate cousin, 

Lucy Maria. 

A Note from Uncle Jacob. 

How ARE YOU, YOUNG MAN? 

I am very glad you go to dancing-school. Boys, 
as a general thing, are too fond of study, and ’tis a 
good plan to have some contrivance to take their 
minds off their books. I suppose you’d like to know 
what is going on here at home. Your grandmother 
sits by the fire knitting some mittens for you to 
lose, so be sure you do it. [She says, tell him to be 
sure when he goes to dancing-school to wear his 
overcoat.] Your aunt Phebe is making jelly tarts. 
Says I can’t have any till meal-time. [Tell him to 
be sure and get cooled off some before he comes 
away.] Your grandmother can’t help worrying 
about that dancing-school. Matilda is picking over 
raisins for the pies. She won’t sit very close to me. 


260 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


Now Tommy has come in, crying with cold hands. 
Lucy Maria is soaking them in cold water. I don’t 
doubt he’ll get a tart. Yes, he has. First he cries, 
and then he takes a bite. [Tell him not to go and 
come in his slippers.] Aunt Phebe says, “ Now 
there’s William Henry growing up, you ought to give 
him some advice.” But I tell her that a boy almost 
in his teens knows himself what’s right and what’s 
wrong. Now Georgiana has come in crying. Says 
she stepped her foot through a puddle of ice. 
Grandmother has set her up to dry her foot. Now 
she’ll get a tart, I suppose! Yes she has. [Tell 
him to look right at the teacher’s feet.] That’s good 
advice if you expect to learn how. Now your 
aunt says I’m such a good boy to write letters she’s 
going to give me this one that’s burnt on the edge. 
[Tell him to brush his clothes and not go linty.] 
More good advice. I guess now I’ve got the tart 
I won’t write any more. Of course we expect you to 
do just about right. If you neglect your studies 
and so waste your father’s money, you’ll be an un¬ 
grateful scamp. If you get into any contemptible 
mean ways, we shall be ashamed to own you. Do 


ADVICE FROM AUNT PHEBE 


261 


you mean to do anything or be anything now or 
ever? If you do, ’tis time you were thinking about 
it. 

Uncle Jacob. 

All between the brackets are messages from your 
grandmother. 

J.U. 


A Note from Aunt Phebe. 

Dear Billy: 

When you get as far as choosing partners, there’s 
a word I want to say to you, though, as you’re a 
pretty good-dispositioned boy, maybe there’s no 
need; still you may not always think, so ’twill do 
no harm to say it. There are always some girls 
that don’t dance quite so well, or don’t look quite 
so well, or don’t dress quite so well, or are not liked 
quite so well, or are not quite so much acquainted. 
Now I don’t want you to all the time, but sometimes, 
say once in an evening, I want you to pick out one 
of these for your partner. I know ’tisn’t the way 

boys do. But you can. Suppose you don’t have 

¥ 

a good time that one dance. You weren’t sent into 


262 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


the world to have a good time every minute of your 
life! How would you like to sit still all the eve¬ 
ning? I’ve been spectator at such times, and I’ve 
seen how things go on! Why, if boys would be 
more thoughtful, every girl might have a good time, 
besides doing the boys good to think of something 
besides their own comfort. If I were you, I wouldn’t 
try to make fun, but try to learn, for though your 
father was willing you should go, and wants to do 
everything he can for you, he has to work hard for 
his money. Lucy Maria is waiting to hear how you 
get on. 

Your affectionate 

Aunt Phebe. 

William Henry to Lucy Maria. 

Dear Cousin: 

I was going to write to you before, how I was 
getting along, but have had to study very hard. 
We’ve been five times. The girls wear slippers and 
brown boots and other colors, and white dresses and 
blue and all kinds, and long ribbons, and a good 
many pretty girls go. If girls didn’t go, I should 


DANCING-SCHOOL 


263 


like to go better. I mean till we know how, for I’d 
rather make mistakes when only boys were looking. 
And I make a good many, because he says I don’t 
have time and tune. He says my feet come down 
sometimes right square athwart the time. So I 
watched the rest, and when they put their feet 
down, I did mine. But that was a stroke too late, 
he said. Said “ time and tune waits for no man.” 
I like to promenade, because a feller can go it some 
then. We learn all kinds of waltzes and redowas 
and polkas. I can polka with one that knows how. 
Whirling round makes me light-headed just as 
Grandmother said. But I get over it some. We 
are going to do the German at the last of it. The 
worst of it is cutting across the room to get your 
partners. He calls out when we’re all standing up 
in two rows, “ First gentleman take the first lady! ” 
Now, supposing I’m first gentleman, I have to go 
way across to first lady with all of ’em looking, and 
fix my feet right way, one heel in the other hollow, 
and then make my bow, and then she has to make 
that kind of kneeling-down bow that girls do, and 
then we wait till all of ’em get across one by one. 


264 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

Then we take the step a little while, and then launch 
off round the hall, polking, or else get into qua¬ 
drilles. And if we do we make graces to the part¬ 
ners and the corners. I like quadrilles best, because 
you can hop round some and have a good time, if you 
have a good partner. You can dance good deal 
better with a good partner. Last time I had that 
one the fellers call “ real estate,” because you can’t 
move her; she don’t ever get ready to start, and when 
’tis time to turn, stands still as a post. 

Dorry and I practise going across after partners, 
up in our room. You ought to ’ve seen us yester¬ 
day! Dorry was the lady. If he didn’t look 
funny! He fixed the table-cloth off the entry table, 
to make it look like his mother’s opera-cape, and 
fastened a great sponge on for a waterfall, and fiz¬ 
zled out his hair, and had a little tidy on top his 
head, and that red bow you sent me right in front of 
it. Then he stood out by the window, and kept 
looking at his opera-cape, and smoothing it down, 
and poking his hair, and holding his handkerchief, 
the way girls do, and kept whispering, or making be¬ 
lieve, to Bubby Short, the way girls do. Then I 


PRACTISING FOR SOCIETY 


265 


went across and made my bow, and he made that 
kneeling-down bow, and then we tried to polka red- 
owa, but our boots tripped us up, and we couldn’t 
stand up, and laughed so we tumbled down, and 
didn’t hear anybody coming till he knocked, and 
’twas the teacher, come to see what the matter was. 
Not Wedding Cake, but Old Brown Bread, and he 
said dancing mustn’t be brought into our studies, 
and scolded more, but I saw his eyes laughing, look¬ 
ing at Dorry. One of the boys tumbled downstairs, 
doing the graces in the entry, too near the edge, 
and it’s forbidden now. Some of the first-class 
fellers put up a notice one night in the entry, great 
printed letters. 





To 

NO ADMITTANCE THE GRACES 



That owl stands for Minerva. I couldn’t make a 
very good one because I’m in such a hurry to do my 
examples. The goddess of wisdom used to be 
named Minerva. She was painted with an owl. 


266 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

I’ve been reading it in the Classical Dictionary. 
Dorry and Bubby Short and I have just been to the 
Two Betsys to get our gloves sewed up, and the 
Other Betsy said she used to dance like a top. Then 
she held her dress up with her thumbs and fingers, 
and took four different kinds of balances. Made us 
die a-laughing, she hopped up and down so. 

Your affectionate cousin, 

William Henry. 

P. S. That to isn’t left out in the notice, it’s my 
own mistake. 

Matilda’s Letter to William Henry. 

Dear Cousin: 

Lucy Maria keeps telling me that I promised to 
write you a letter, but I wish I hadn’t promised to 
write you one, because I don’t like to write letters 
very well, for I can’t think of anything to write. 
But Lucy Maria she likes to, and that would do just 
as well as for me to. But Mother says I ought to 
often, so as to get me in the habit of it. I don’t have 
very much time to write very long letters, for the 


MATILDA’S LETTER 


267 


girls are getting up a Fair, and I am helping do the 
old woman in her shoe, and gentlemen’s pincush¬ 
ions, and presents for the arrow table, where the 
arrow swings round and points to your present, and 
so I don’t get very much time between schools. For 
we have to write compositions every week now, and 
all the girls think the teacher is just as mean as he 
can be to make us. We want he should take off 
some of the compositions and put more on to our 
other lessons; but no. He thinks ’tis the best thing 
we can do. He don’t care about anything else, I be¬ 
lieve. Susie Snow says she believes he’s all made 
up of composition. Our next subject is “ Econ¬ 
omy ” and we’ve got to put in time wasted, and 
health wasted, and money wasted. Susie Snow is 
going to put in hers that girls should never waste 
their time writing compositions. 

I wish I could think of some news to tell. Lucy 
Maria could get news in a sandy desert, I believe. 
But she don’t have to go to school. Hannah Jane 
hasn’t got home from Aunt Matilda’s yet. The 
minister and his wife and all his children have been 
here to spend the day. They are very fond of 


268 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


jelly. Mother gave them that tall gilt tumbler 
full, that Cousin Joe brought home from sea, with 
gilt flowers on it. ’Tis very pleasant weather. I 
wish you’d come back and hoe my flower-garden, 
the weeds are thick as spatters, and I don’t have 
much time. The dog stepped on my sensitive plant. 
Some of my seeds haven’t come up. Father says I 
better go down after them. That Root of Bliss I 
set out, good for the headache, that Cousin Joe 
brought home from the island of Sumatra, that’s in 
the Mediterranean Sea, or else in the Indian Ocean, 
the hens scratched up four times, and I’ve brought 
it in the house and stuck it in a cigar-box. Father 
told me to shake pepper over it because ’twas used 
to pepper at home, but I can’t tell what he means and 
what he don’t, he funs so. Our new cow hooks 
down rails and goes where she wants to. 

Oh, Billy! now I can tell you some news. But 
’tis quite bad news. It happened two weeks ago. 
We all felt very sorry about it, and some of us cried. 
I couldn’t help it. You know our cow that was 
named Reddie, the one we raised up from a bossy- 
calf with milk-porridge till ’twas big enough to eat 


MATILDA’S LETTER 


269 


grass? Well, she got in the bog. We were just 
eating supper. Georgiana was eating supper at our 
house that night. Tommy hadn’t got home from 
school, and we were all wondering where he was. 
Father said he didn’t doubt he’d gone to find his 
turtle. He had a turtle that got loose and ran away. 
Mother was just saying he’d have to have cold dip- 
toast for his supper, for she makes it a rule not to 
keep things about for him when he don’t come 
straight home to his meals. He’d rather play than 
eat. ’Tis only a little school he goes to. Not very 
far off. Five scholars, that’s all. Little bits of 
ones. But I must tell about our cow. 

We began to hear a great screaming, and couldn’t 
think what the matter was. ’Twas Tommy. And 
next thing he came running through the yard, cry¬ 
ing and hollering both together, “ Father! Father! 
Cow! Reddie! ” Much as he could do to speak. 
Father knew in a minute what ’twas, for he knew 
she was pastured close to the bog, and he ran and 
we all ran, and Mr. Snow and some other men that 
found it out came with us. Oh, poor cow! She 
was in more than half-way up, and making dreadful 


270 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

moaning noises, and shook her head and tried to stir, 
but every stir made her go deeper in. Men and 
boys waded in, but they couldn’t do anything. 

“ Rails! rails! ” they all called out, and we pulled 
them out of the fences and they tried to prise her 
up with them, but the bog was so soft she sank in 
so they couldn’t do anything with her. Much as 
they could do to keep up themselves. Mr. Snow 
was prising with a rotten rail, and it broke, and he 
went down in the wet. Old Mr. Slade, that goes 
with two canes, came there bareheaded and sat 
down on the bank. He told them to go get some 
boards. There weren’t any, any nearer than Mr. 
John Slade’s new house, and that was too far off, 
and Father said ’twas too late, for she was in, then, 
up to the top of her back. ’Most all the women 
and girls came away then, for we couldn’t bear to 
stay any longer to see her suffer. She kept her 
nose pointed up high as she could, and her eyes 
looked very mournful. 

In the morning Father told me I should never see 
Reddie again. They got her up, but not soon 
enough. She’s buried now, under the poplar-tree, 


MATILDA’S LETTER 


271 


in that field we bought of Mr. Snow. She was a 
good, gentle cow, and seemed to know us. Mother 
says she seemed like one of the family. Georgiana 
about spoiled her new boots in the bog. Our 
new cow isn’t the best breed, but she’s part best. 
The cream is considerable yellow, but not very. She 
gives about eight or nine quarts. Milk has risen 
a cent. Mother declares she will not measure her 
milk in that new kind of quart, that don’t hold much 
over a pint. Lucy Maria and all of us are trying to 
have Mother go get her picture taken. But she 
says she can’t screw her courage up, and can’t take 
the time. Your father says he wants to see her 
good clever face in a picture. Too bad blue eyes 
take light. But she might be taken looking down, 
Lucy Maria says, mending Tommy’s trousers, that 
would be natural. He’s always making barn-doors 
in his trousers, he’s such a climbing fellow. 

L. M. and I have ’most earned money enough, 
and Father’s going to make up the rest, and we are 
going to hire a cheap piano, that Mr. Fry told us 
about, and I’m going to be a music teacher, I guess. 
I’m going to begin next month. I shall take of Miss 


272 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


Ashley. I shall have to walk a mile. 0 goody! 
goody! dum, dum, dum! Sha’n’t I be glad! But 
Susie Snow says I shall sing another tune after I’ve 
taken a little while. Father says if I begin to take 
I must go through. Says I must promise to practise 
two hours a day. I’d just as soon promise that as 
not. ’Tis just what Hike. Only think, I shall have 
a piano in this very house. Seems if I couldn’t be¬ 
lieve it! I can play for you to dance. Wish I 
knew how to dance. Susie Snow has come after 
me to go take a walk. Now, William Henry, you 
must answer this letter just as immediately as pos¬ 
sible. 

From your affectionate cousin, 

Matilda. 

P. S. Cousin Joe has sent me a smelling-bot¬ 
tle, a little gilt one he brought home, that’s got 
ninety-four different smells in it. Mother is writ¬ 
ing you a note. She says you can’t dance on her 
carpet. Father says he’s sorry he didn’t learn the 
graces, and means to when you come again. We 
can dance in the barn. Tommy has just come in. 
He says he know his B A C’s. He’s a funny boy. 


A BASEBALL FINGER 


273 


He means A B C’s. But he always gets the horse 
before the cart. One day we tried to make conun¬ 
drums, and Georgiana made this, — see if you can 
answer it: Which is best, to have plum-cake for 
supper and only have a little mite of a piece, or cook¬ 
ies, and have as many as you want? 

Georgiana ? s kitty has just jumped over the fence. 
She’s after my morning-glories again. Just as fast 
as I fasten ’em up, she-goes to playing with the 
strings and claws ’em down again. Lucy Maria 
drew a picture of her doing it. 

M. 

A Note from Dorry. 

Dear William Henry’s Grandmother: 

William Henry wants I should tell you not to be 
scared when you see another boy’s handwriting on 
the back of this letter, and not to think he’s got 
cold, or got anything else, like measles, or anything 
of that kind, and not to feel worried about his not 
writing for so long, for he is all right except the first 
joint of his forefinger. He crooked that joint, or 
else uncrooked it, playing baseball. ’Twas a heavy 



274 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


ball and he took it whole on that joint, and ’tis so 
stiff he can’t handle a penholder. He thinks you 
will all wonder why he doesn’t write, and worry 
about his getting sick or something, but he never 
felt better. Appetite very good. He has received 
his cousin Matilda’s letter, and will answer it when 
he can. We wants to know what she’d think if she 
had to write poetry for composition. Our teacher 
told us we must each write one verse about June. 
I put three of them in for you to see, but don’t put 
our names. 

“ Oh, I love the verdant June, 

When the birds are all in tune, 

When the rowers go out to row, 

When the mowers go out to mow, 

Oh, sweetly smells the fragrant hay 
As we ride on the load and stow it away.” 

“ In June we can sail 
In the gentle gale, 

On the waters blue, 

And catch codfish 
That makes a good dish, 

And mackerel, too.” 

“ In June the summer skies are clear, 

And soon green apples do appear. 


DORRY OBLIGES 


275 


And though they’re hard and sour, we know 
That every day they’ll better grow. 

This teaches us that boys, also, 

Every day should better grow.” 

P. S. He wants I should tell you ’tis tied up in a 
rag all right and don’t hinder his studying. Says 
he wishes his cousin Lucy Maria would write him 
one of her kind of letters, that she knows how to 
write, and tell what they are all doing and what they 
talk about, and when his finger is well he will answer 
all the letters they will write to him. 

Very respectfully, 

Billy’s Friend, Dorry. 

Aunt Phebe’s Note. 

My dear Billy: 

Grandmother worries about that finger. Do ask 
Dorry to write again, or else take the penholder in 
your middle one, though we mistrust that’s dam¬ 
aged, or you’d have written before this. I’ve had 
my picture taken and send you one to keep. Look 
at it often, and if you’ve done anything wrong, 


276 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


think it shakes its head at you! Little wrong 
things, or big ones, all the same. For little wrongs 
are more dangerous, because we think they’re of 
no account. But they show what’s in a person, 
same as a little pattern of goods tells what the 
whole piece is. Show me half an inch of cotton, 
and I’ll tell you what color the whole spool is. 

I’d no idea of having my picture taken. I was 
right in the heart of baking, when your uncle 
drove up and said he’d harnessed up on pur¬ 
pose. ’Twas all a contrived plan between him and 
the girls. I saw them smiling together when Mat- 
tie brought out my black alpaca. I thought the 
girls seemed mighty ready to take hold and finish up 
the baking. But he got caught in his own trap, for 
Lucy Maria went with us, to make sure my collar 
and things looked fit to be taken, and she set her 
foot down we shouldn’t leave the saloon till he’d 
had his, for she was going to have a locket with 
us both inside, and I had to be done over small. 
What an operation it is to have your picture taken! 
If we could only take ether and be carried through! 
He put my head in a clamp, and crossed my hands, 


BEING PHOTOGRAPHED 


277 


and pinned up a black rag for me to look at, and told 
me to look easy and natural, and smile a very little! 
I’m sure I tried to, but your Uncle J. says ’tis a very 
melancholy face, and Lucy Maria says the cheek¬ 
bones cast a shadow! Your father says the worst 
of it is, it does look like me! I think it’s too bad 
to make fun of it, after all I passed through! Your 
Uncle J. took things easy and joked with the man, 
and was laughing when the cover was taken off and 
didn’t dare to unlaugh, he says, so he came out all 
right, with a laughing face, as he always is. The 
girls want we should be taken large and hang up, 
side by side, in two oval frames, over the mantel¬ 
piece. But their father says he sha’n’t be hung up 
alive, if he can help himself. 

It isn’t likely I shall write to you again very soon. 
Cousin Joe and his accordion are coming, and he’ll 
bring his sisters, and the young folks about here 
know them, and I expect there’ll be nothing but 
frolicking. Then there’ll be some of your Uncle 
J.’s folks after that, so you see we’ll be all in a hub¬ 
bub and I shall have to be the very hub of the hub¬ 
bub, I suppose. Lucy Maria says, “ Tell William 


278 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


Henry to send us a charade, or something to amuse 
the company with.” Write when you can. 

With a great deal of love, your affectionate 

Aunt Phebe. 

P. S. Take good care of your finger. A fin¬ 
ger-joint would be a great loss. I think cold water 
is as good as anything. Grandmother wishes you 
had some of her carrot salve. Let us hear from you 
in some way. Grandmother wants to know if the 
Two Betsys don’t make carrot salve. 

Lucy Maria to William Henry. 

Dear Billy: 

’Tis a pity about that forefinger. Pray get it 
well enough to handle a pen, ’tis so long since you’ve 
written. So you want home matters reported. 
Eatable matters of course will be most interesting. 
Milk and butter, plenty. Gingerbread (plain), 
ditto. Gingerbread (fancy), scarce. Cookies, 
quiet. Plum-cake, in demand. Snaps, lively. 
Brown-bread, firm. White-bread (sliced), dull. 
Biscuits (hot), brisk. Custard, unsteady. Pre¬ 
serves not in the market. 


LUCY MARIA’S LETTER 


2 79 


What do we do, and what do we talk about? 
Why, we talk about our cousin William Henry, and 
what we do can’t be told within the bounds of one 
letter. Think of seven cows’ milk to churn into 
butter, besides a cheese now and then, and besides 
working for the extra hands we hire this time o’ 
year! I should have written to you before, when 
we first heard of your accident, if I could have got 
the time. Hannah Jane is away, and we’ve let 
Mattie go with Susie Snow to Grandma Snow’s 
again for a few days. Grandma Snow likes to have 
Mattie come with Susie, for ’tis rather a still, dull 
place. So you must think we are quite lonesome 
here now, and we are, especially Mother. Father 
tells her she’d better advertise for a companion. 
I’ve a good mind to advertise to be a companion. 
What do companions do? The old lady might be 
cross, or the old gentleman, but that wouldn’t hurt 
me, so long as I kept clever myself. Don’t doubt 
I’d get fun out of it some way. There’s fun in 
about everything, I think. 

I’ve been trying to get Father and Mother to 
go to Aunt Lucy’s and stay all night. But Father 


280 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


thinks there wouldn’t be anybody to shut the barn¬ 
door, and Mother thinks there wouldn’t be anybody 
to do anything, though I’ve promised to scald the 
pans, and do up the starched things, and keep 
Tommy out of the sugar-bowl. He takes a lump 
every chance he can get. Takes after his father. 
Father puts sugar on sweetened puddings, if Mother 
isn’t looking! We’ve made some verses to plague 
Tommy, and when Mattie gets her piano, they’re 
going to be set to music. 

SONG 

A Sweet Tommy. 

As turns the needles to the pole, 

So Tommy to the sugar-bowl. 

Tra la la, tra la la! 

Sweet, sweet Tommy! 

Tommy always takes a toll 
Going by the sugar-bowl. 

Tra la la, tra la la! 

Sweet, sweet Tommy! 

Were Tommy blind as any mole, 

He’d always find the sugar-bowl. 

, Tra la la, tra la la! 

Sweet, sweet Tommy! 


THE ILLUMINATION 


281 


He’s a funny-talking fellow. We took him into 
town last night, to see the illumination. This morn¬ 
ing we heard him and Frankie Snow telling 
Benny Joyce about it. Father and I were listen¬ 
ing behind the blinds. Made Father’s eyes twin¬ 
kle. Don’t you know how they twinkle when he’s 
tickled? 

“ You didn’t see the rumination and we did! ” 
we heard Tommy say. 

“ Rumination? What’s a rumination? ” asked 
Benny. 

“ Oh, hoo! hoo! ” cried Tommy. “Denno what 
a rumination is! ” 

“ Why,” said Frankie, “ don’t you know the pub¬ 
licans? Wal, that’s it.” 

“ Oh, poh! ” said Benny. “ Publicans and sin¬ 
ners! I knew they’scorning! ” 

“And soldiers! ” said Frankie. “O my! All 
a marching together! ” 

i 

“Oh, poh! ” said Benny. “I see ’em go by. 
Paint-pots on their heads, and brushes in ’em! I 
wasn’t goin’to chase! ” 

“ Guess nobody wouldn’t let ye? ” said Frankie. 


282 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


“ Didn’t either! ” cried Tommy, “ didn’t have 
paint-pots! ” 

“ Did! ” said Benny. “ Guess my great brother 
knows! ” 

“ Guess we know,” said Frankie, “ when we 
went! ” 

“ And the town was all celebrated” said Tommy. 
“And the houses all gloomed up! And horses! O 
my! ” 

“ Oh, poh! ” said Benny. “ When I grow up, I’m 
goin’ to have a span! ” 

If Mother does go, she’ll take Tommy, for she 
wouldn’t sleep a wink away from him over night. 
Father pretends he’d go if he had a handsome span. 
Says he hasn’t got a horse in the barn good enough 
to take mother out riding. When Mammy Sarah 
was here washing, she told him how he could get a 
good span. You know he’s always joking about 
taking summer boarders. Says Mammy Sarah, 
“ Now ’tis a wonder to me you don’t do it, for sum¬ 
mer boarders is as good as gold-mines. Money 
runs right out of their pockets, and all you have to 
do is to catch it.” She says we could make enough 


SUMMER BOARDERS 


283 


out of a couple of them, in a month’s time, to buy 
a handsome span, and she isn’t sure but the harness. 

I think we begin to be a little in earnest about 
summer boarders. For we have rooms enough, in 
both houses together, and milk and vegetables, and 
Mother’s a splendid cook. Mammy Sarah says, 
“ They ain’t diffikilt, and after they’ve been in the 
country couple of weeks, they don’t eat so very 
much more than other folks.” 

Father says he wants to take them more for the 
entertainment than the money. He wants rich 
ones, but not the sensible kind, that know money 
isn’t the only thing worth having. Says what he 
wants is that silly, stuck-up kind, that put on airs, 
and make fools of themselves, they’d be so amusing! 
Thinks the best sort for our use would be specimens 
that went up quite sudden from poor to rich, like 
balloons, all filled with gas. I believe there’d be 
lots of fun to be made out of them. I’ve seen one 
or two. Gracious! You’d think they weren’t born 
on the same planet with poor folks. Mother’d 
rather have the really well-informed, sensible kind, 
that we may learn something from them. A couple 


284 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

of each would be just the thing. How do you like 
Mother’s picture? We don’t feel at all satisfied 
with it. If she could only be taken at home! 
Then she’d look natural. Father says the world is 
going ahead so fast, he believes the time will come 
when every family will have its own picture- 
machine, much as it has its own frying-pan. Then 
when folks have on their best expressions, why, 
clap it right before them. Then they’ll look hom- 
ish. Says what he wants is to have Mother’s face 
when she’s just made a batch of uncommon light 
biscuits, or when Tommy’s said something smart. 
Won’t there be funny pictures when we can hold 
up a machine before anybody any minute, like a 
frying-pan, and catch faces glad, or mad, or sad, or 
any way? I made believe take Tommy’s and then 
showed them to him on a piece of paper. Guess I’ll 
put them in the letter. They’ll do to amuse you. 
I draw an hour or so every day. First, I have to 
make my hour. Sometimes I have to make more. 
For I will read a little, if the world stops because of 
it. But about the faces. First one is when he was 
crying because he couldn’t have sugar on his po- 


TOMMY 


285 


tatoes. Next one is when he was spunky at Frankie 
Snow for bursting his little red balloon. The 
pleased-looking face is when father brought him 
home a little ship all rigged, and the laughing one 
is when the cow put her head in the window. We 
tell him we’ll have them framed and hung up so he 
can see just how he looks. Mother says ’tis all very 



well to laugh at Tommy, but she guesses some older 
one’s pictures wouldn’t always look smiling and 
pleasant, take them the year through! 

As soon as your finger is itself again, do write, 
for we miss your letters. We expect to have gay 
times here this summer. Company coming, but 
we sha’n’t make company of them. Except to have 
splendid times. What shall we do evenings? If 



286 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


you go anywhere where there is anything going on, 
do write us about it, so we can go on the same way. 
When are you coming? Write me a good long let¬ 
ter when you can. 

Your affectionate cousin, 

Lucy Maria. 

Your father is going to write you a letter. Quite 
wonderful for him. Oh, William Henry, you don’t 
know how much I think of your father, and what a 
good man he is! I guess you’d better write to your 
grandmother before you do to me; she’s so pleased 
to have you write to her. 

Father wants to know when that ball hit you, if 
you bawled. 

\ _ . 

William Henry to Aunt Phebe, 

Dear Aunt Phebe: 

I thank you for taking your time to write to me, 
when you have so much work to do. My forefinger 
has about recovered the use of itself. The middle 
one did go lame a spell, but now ’tis very well, I 
thank you. Mrs. Wedding Cake did them up for 


VISITING BOSTON 


287 


me. I think she’s a very kind woman. Dorry 
says he’d put a girdle round the earth in forty min¬ 
utes or lay down his life, if she wanted him to, or 
anything else, for the only woman he knows that 
will smile on boys’ mud and on boys’ noise. 

Ten of us went on an excursion with the teacher, 
half-price, to Boston, and had a long ride in the cars, 
over forty miles. We went everywhere, and saw 
lots of things. Went into the Natural History 
building. You can go in for nothing. You stand 
on the floor, at the bottom and look ’way to the top. 
All round inside are galleries running round, with 
alcoves letting out of them, where they keep all sorts 
of unknown beasts and birds and bugs and snakes. 
Some of those great birds are regular smashers! 
’Most dazzles your eyes to look at their feathers, 
they’re such bright red! I’d just give a guess how 
tall they were, but don’t believe I’d come within a 
foot or two. Also butterflies of every kind, besides 
skeletons of monkeys and children and minerals and 
all kinds of grasses and seeds, and nuts there such 
as you never cracked or thought of! They are 
there because they are seeds, not because they are 


288 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


nuts. And there’s a cast of a great ugly monster, 
big as several elephants, that used to walk round 
the earth before any men lived in it. If he wasn’t 
a ripper! Could leave his hind feet on the ground 
and put his fore paws up in the trees and eat the 
tops off! They call him a Megotharium! I hope 
he’s spelt right, though he ought not to expect it, 
and I don’t know as it makes much difference, see¬ 
ing he lived thousands of years before the flood, and 
lucky he did, Dorry says, for the old Ark couldn’t 
have floated with many of that sort aboard. He 
wasn’t named till long after he was dead and buried. 
Patient waiter is no loser, Dorry says, for he’s got 
more name than the ones that live now, and is taken 
more notice of. We saw a cannon-ball on the side 
of Brattle Street Church, where ’twas first in the 
Revolution, and we went to the top of the State 
House. Made our knees ache going up so many 
steps, but it pays. For you can look all over the 
harbor, and all round the country, and see the white 
towns, and steeples, for miles and miles. Boston 
was built on three hills and the State House is on 
one of them. I can’t write any more, now. 


THE MEGATHERIUM 


289 


W. B. has left school, because his father got a 
place for him in New York. His father thought he 
was old enough to begin. He’s a good deal older 
than I am. 

From your affectionate nephew, 

William Henry. 



How do you like this picture of that great Mego 
— I won’t try to spell him again — eating off the 
tree-tops? The leaves on the trees then were dif¬ 
ferent from the ones we have now. Dorry made 
the leaves, and I made the creature. 

A Letter to William Henry from his Father. 
My dear Son: 

Perhaps you have thought that because I am 
rather a silent man, and do not very often write you 



























290 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


a letter, that I have not very much feeling and do 
not take interest in you. But no one knows how 
closely I am watching my boy as Time is bringing 
him up from boyhood to manhood. 

Sometimes your grandmother worries about your 
being where there may be bad boys; but I tell her 
that among so many there must be both good and 
bad, and if you choose the bad, you show very poor 
judgment. I think if a boy picks out bad compan¬ 
ions, it shows there is something bad in himself. 

She says I ought to keep giving you good advice, 
now you are just starting in life, and charge you to 
be honest and truthful and so forth. I tell her that 
would be something as it would be if you were just 
starting on a pleasant journey, and I should say, 
“ Now, William Henry, don’t put out your own eyes 
at the beginning, or cut the cords of your legs! ” 
Do you see what I mean? A boy that is not honest 
and truthful puts out his own eyes and cripples 
himself at the very beginning. 

There is a good deal said about arriving at honor 
and distinction. I don’t want you to think about 
arriving at honor. * I want you to take honor to 



FATHERS LETTER 


29 i 

start with. And as for distinction, a man, in the 
long run, is never distinguished for anything but 
what he really is. So make up your mind just 
what you want to pass for, and be it. For you will 
pass for what you are, not what you try to appear. 
Go into the woods and see how easily you can tell 
one tree from another. You see oak leaves on one, 
and you know that is oak all the way through. You 
see pine needles on another, and you know that is 
pine all the way through. A pine-tree may want 
to look like an oak, and try to look like an oak, and 
think it does look like an oak, as it can’t see itself. 
But nobody is cheated. So a rascally fellow may 
want to appear fair and honest, and try to ap¬ 
pear fair and honest, and think he does appear 
fair and honest, as he can’t see himself. But, in 
the long run, nobody is cheated. For you can read 
a man’s character about as easy as you can the 
leaves on the trees. Sometimes I sit down in a 
grocery store and hear the neighbors talked about, 
and ’tis curious to find how well everybody is known. 
It seems as if every man walked round, labelled, 
as you may say, same as preserve jars are labelled, 


292 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

currant, quince, &c. Only he don’t know what his 
label is. Just as likely as not a man may think 
his label is Quince Marmalade, when ’tis only 
Pickled String Beans! 

Just so with boys. Grown folks notice boys a 
great deal, though when I was a boy, I never knew 
they did. The little affairs of play-time and school- 
time, and their home-ways are all talked over, and 
by the time a boy is twelve years old, it is pretty 
well known what sort of a man he will make. 

Now don’t mistake my meaning. I don’t want 
you to be true because people will know it if you are 
not, but because it is right and noble to be so. I 
want you to be able to respect yourself. Never 
do anything that you like yourself any the less for 
doing. 

A boy of your age is old enough to be looking 
ahead some, to see what he is aiming at. I don’t sup¬ 
pose you want to drift, like the seaweed, that lodges 
wherever the waves toss it up! Set up your mark, 
and a good high one. And be sure to remember 
that, as a general thing, there is no such thing as 
luck. If a man seems to be a lucky merchant, or 


FATHER’S LETTER 


293 


lawyer, or anything else, ’tis because he has the tal¬ 
ent, the industry, the determined will, that make 
him so. People see the luck, but they don’t always 
see the “ taking pains ” that’s behind it. I re¬ 
member you wrote us a letter once, and spoke of a 
nice house, with nice things inside, that you meant 
to have by “ trying hard enough.” There’s a good 
deal in that. We’ve got to try hard, and try long, 
and try often, and try again, and keep trying. That 
house never’ll come down to you. You’ve got to 
climb up to it, step by step. I don’t know as I have 
anything to say about the folly of riches. On the 
contrary, I think ’tis a very good plan to have money 
enough to buy books and other things worth having. 
I don’t see why a man can’t be getting knowledge 
and growing better, at the same time he is growing 
richer. Some poor folks have a prejudice against 
rich folks. I haven’t any. Rich people have fol¬ 
lies, but poor people copy them if they can. That 
is to say, we often see poor people making as big 
fools of themselves as they can with the means they 
have. Money won’t hurt you, Billy, so long as you 
keep common sense and a true heart. 


294 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


We are all watching you and thinking of you, here 
at home. If you should go wrong ’twould be a sad 
blow for both families. Perhaps I ought to tell you 
how I feel towards you, and how, ever since your 
mother’s death, my heart has been bound up in you 
and Georgie. You would then know what a crush¬ 
ing thing it would be to me if you were found want¬ 
ing in principle. But I am not very good, either at 
talking or writing, so do remember, dear boy, that 
even when I don’t say a word, I’m thinking about 
you and loving you always. God bless you! 

From your affectionate 

Father. 

Old Wonder Boy to William Henry. 

Dear Friend: 

I like my place, and think it is a very excellent 
one. It is “ Veazey & Summ’s.” When you get a 
place, it is my advice that you should procure one in 
New York, as New York is greatly superior to Bos¬ 
ton. Boston is a one-horse place. I wouldn’t be 
seen riding in that slow coach. Washington Street 
could be put whole into Broadway, and not know it 


WONDER BOY IN BUSINESS 295 

was there hardly, for you could travel both sides 
and all round it. Our store is a very excellent store. 
Some consider it greatly superior to Stewart’s. All 
our clerks dress in very superior style and go in 
very good society, and so I learn to use very good 
language. We keep boys to do the errands, and 
porters. All the stylish people do their trading 
here. The young ladies like to trade with me very 
much. The New York ladies are greatly superior 
to any other ladies. The firm think a great deal 
of me, so I expect to be promoted quite fast. I am 
learning to smoke. I have got a very handsome 
pipe. The head clerk thinks it has got a very su¬ 
perior finish to it. We two are quite thick. How 
are all the fellers? Write soon. Remember me 
to all inquiring friends, and excuse handwriting. 

Your friend, 

Walter Briesden. 

# 

William Henry to Matilda. 

Dear Cousin: 

Now I’m going to answer your letter, and then I 
sha’n’t have to think about it any longer. I was 


296 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


sorry to hear about poor Reddie. But if it had 
been Tommy, then it would have been a great deal 
worse. Think of that. Dorry and I have been 
wishing ’most a week about something, and now 
I’ll tell you what ’tis about. About a party. ’Tis 
going to be at Colonel Grey’s. He lives in a large 
light-colored brick house, with a piazza round it, 
and a fountain, and bronze dogs, and everything 
lovely. It is Maud Grey’s birthday party. Six¬ 
teen years old. Old and young are going to be 
invited, because her little sister’s birthday comes 
next day to hers. Now sometimes when there’s 
a party, some of the biggest of our fellows get in¬ 
vited, because there are not very many young gen¬ 
tlemen in town, and they are glad to take some from 
the school. But we two never have yet. But 
Dorry thinks we stand a better chance now, for 
we’ve been to dancing-school, and will do to fill up 
sets with. Maud Grey didn’t go as a scholar, but 
she went spectator sometimes, and took my part¬ 
ner’s place once, when her string of beads broke. 
Dorry was in the same set. I never polkaed bet¬ 
ter in my life, for she took me round and made me 


HOPES AND FEARS 


297 


keep time whether I wanted to or not, but I told 
Dorry I felt just like a little boy that had been 
lifted over a puddle. He’s afraid she won’t re¬ 
member us, but I guess I’m afraid she will, and 
then won’t invite such a bad dancer. We two 
thought we’d walk by the house, just for fun, and 
make ourselves look tall. So we held up our chins, 
and swung two little canes we’d cut, going along, 
for small chaps are plenty enough, but young gen¬ 
tlemen go off to college, or stores, soon’s they’re 
of any size. The blinds were all shut up, but Dorry 
said there was hope if the slats were turned the right 
way. Blind slats here move all ways. Yesterday, 
in school-time, I saw a colored man coming towards 
the school-house, and thought ’twas Cicero, the one 
that works for Colonel Grey, coming with the in¬ 
vitations, and made a loud “ hem! ” for Dorry to 
look up, and a hiss, to mean Cicero, and pointed 
out doors. ’Twasn’t very loud, but that one we 
call Brown Bread, that has eyes in the back of his 
head, and ears all over him, and smells rat where 
there isn’t any, and wears slippers, so you can’t 
hear him, even if ’tis still enough to drop a pin, — 


298 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


I thought he was over the other side of the room, 
tending to his own affairs, but all of a sudden he was 
standing just back of me, and I had to lose a recess 
just for that. And ’twasn’t Cicero after all, but the 
one that comes after the leavings. — (Somebody 
knocks.) 

Afternoon. — Hurrah! We’re going! The one 
that knocked at the door was Spicey, with our in¬ 
vitations. When I come home I’ll bring them home 
to show. They came through the post-office. We 
expect they all came to the professor, with orders 
to pick out the ten tallest ones, for they are directed 
in his writing. I never went to such a party, and 
shouldn’t know how to behave, if ’twasn’t for Dorry. 
First thing you do is to go up and speak to the lady 
of the house and the lady of the party. I mean after 
you’ve been upstairs, and looked in the looking- 
glass and smoothed down our hair. Mine always 
comes up again. I’ve tried water and I’ve tried 
oil, and I’ve tried beef-marrow, but ’tis bound to 
come up. Dorry says I ought to put it in a net. 
Don’t you remember that time I had my head 
shaved off close, and how it looked like an orange? 



A REHEARSAL 


299 


I’m glad ’tisn’t so red as it was. Tis considerable 
dark now. When you come down you walk up to 
the lady of the house and say, “ How do you do? ” 
and shake hands, and when you go home you have 
to bid her good-night, and say you’ve had a very 
pleasant time, and shake hands again. Not shove 
out your fist, as if you were shoving a croquet-ball, 
but slow, with the fingers about straight, and not 



speak it out blunt, as if you were singing out “ Good¬ 
night! ” to the fellers, but quite softly and smiling. 
Dorry’s been showing me beforehand. Bubby 
Short stood up in the floor, and had the bed-spread 
tied round him with a cod-line, for a trail, and shav¬ 
ings for curls. He was the lady of the house and 
we walked up to him, and said, “ How do you do, 















300 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

Mrs. Grey? ” and so forth. Dorry drew this pic¬ 
ture of us. He draws better than I do. I will 
write about the party. 

From your cousin, 

William Henry. 

William Henry to his Grandmother. 

My dear Grandmother: 

Now if you will be a good little grandmother, 
and promise never to worry any more, then I’ll tell 
you about that party. We had to wear white gloves. 
I’ll begin at the outside. The piazzas had colored 
lights hanging round them, and there were colored 
lights hung in the trees and the gateways. ’Twas 
a foggy night, and those colored lights lighted up 
the fog all around, so when you came towards the 
place it looked just like a great bright spot in the 
midst of darkness. There was a tall lady, standing 
in the middle of the room, with a splendid dress on, 
dragging ’way behind her, and I went right up to 
her, and just got my foot the way Mr. Tornero told 
us, and the palm of my hand right, when Dorry 
jerked me back by my jacket and said she wasn’t 


THE WRONG LADY 


301 


the right one. You see we got belated, going back 
after our clean pocket-hankerchiefs, and hurried so 
that Dorry fell down and muddied his trousers’ 
knees, but lucky ’twas close to the Two Betsys’ 
shop, for we went in there and got sponged up, but 
we had to wait for ’em to dry. Lame Betsy said 
she used to take care of Maud Grey when she was 
a little scrap, and she wanted to make her a birth¬ 



day present. So they both hunted round, to see if 
they had anything. In the desk they found a little 
thin book, a funny-looking old blue-covered book, 
“ Advice to a Young Lady,” that was given to Lame 
Betsy when she was young. The title was on the 
blue cover. ’Twas a funny-looking thing and it 
smelt snuffy. She asked me to give it to Maud, 
after she’d written her name in it. I tell you now, 




































302 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


Lame Betsy makes quite good letters! I didn’t 
want to take the book, but I did, for both Betsys are 
clever women. 

All this was the reason we got belated, and Mrs. 
Grey had got mixed up with the other people, but 
we found her and did the right thing by her. And 
Maud, too. I don’t think any of you would believe 
that I could behave so well! so polite I mean. 
Course I didn’t feel bashful any! Oh, no! 

They had four pieces, and they played as if they 
knew how. I didn’t dance at the first of it. Didn’t 
dare to. ’Twas too light there. The carpets were 
covered with white. Then chandeliers, and lamps, 
and wax candles, and flowers everywhere they could 
be, set up in vases, — one lady called vases, 
“ varzes,” — and hanging-baskets. I never was in 
such a beautiful place. The ladies sang at the pi¬ 
ano, and the young gentlemen turned their leaves 
over. Oh, you ought to’ve heard ’em when the tunes 
went up, up, up! Enough to make you catch your 
breath! Seemed as if it could never get down again! 
I don’t like that kind. But Dorry said ’twas opera 
style and nobody was to blame but me, if I didn’t like 




MAUD GREY’S PARTY 


303 


it. Now “ John Brown’s Body,” I like that, and 
when they all sang that, I joined right in, same as any 
of them. For I knew I knew that tune. But first 
one looked round at me, and then another looked 
round at me, as if something was the matter. I 
thought I saw ’em smiling. Then I kept still. But 
I didn’t know I was singing wrong. Oh, I do wish 
I knew what this singing is! Seems easy enough. 
Now when the tune goes up loud, I go up loud, and 
when that goes down low, I go down low. But 
Dorry says it isn’t singing. Says ’tis discord. But 
I can’t tell discord from any other cord, and he says 
the harder I try, the worse noise I make. I do wish 
I could roar out that Glory Hallelujah! for I feel 
the tune inside of me, but it never comes out right. 
Dorry laughs when I set out to sing. He says I 
chase the tune up and down all the way through, 
and never hit it! Now, if ’tis right inside, why 
can’t it come out right? I don’t see! 

We went into a large room to eat refreshments, 
and I wish Aunt Phebe could see the things we had. 
And taste of them, too. I save the frosting off my 
cake for Tommy. ’Tis wrapped up in a paper in my 


304 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

trunk. Tis different from your frosting, good deal 
harder. I had a sort of funny time in that room. 
Somebody had to hit my elbow when I was passing 
custard to a girl, and joggled over a mess of it on to 
her white dress and my trousers. I whipped out my 
pocket-handkerchief to sop it up, and whipped out 
that little blue book. Somebody picked it up, and 
one young man, that had been cutting up all the 
evening, Maud Grey’s cousin, he got hold of it 
and read her name and called out to her to come get 
her present, and made a good deal of fun about it, 
and began to read it out loud. She wanted to know 
who brought it, and somebody told her I was the 
one. I began to grow red as fire, but all of a sud¬ 
den I thought, “ Now, Billy, what’s the use? ” So I 
said very plain, “ Miss Grey, Lame Betsy sent you 
that book.” She didn’t laugh very much, only 
smiled and asked me to tell Lame Betsy she was glad 
that she remembered her. Guess she thought I 
looked bashful, for afterwards she asked me if I 
wouldn’t try a polka with her. I don’t think she’s 
very proud, for when I was looking at a painted vase, 
she came and told me how it was done, for all I 


BEHEADING WORDS 


305 


wasn’t much acquainted with her. She talked to 
me as easy and sociable as if she’d been Lucy Maria. 

A company of us got together in one of the rooms 
and ate our ice-creams there, and while we were 

i * 

eating them, we beheaded words. Lucy Maria 
must read this letter, for she’ll want to know how. 
When you behead a word you take off the first let¬ 
ter. It’s fun, when you get beheading them fast. 
The spelling mustn’t be changed. Dorry made 
some of these. I didn’t. I couldn’t think fast 
enough. 

Behead an article of dress, and you leave a farm¬ 
ing tool. 

Shoe — hoe. 

I’ll put the rest of the answers at the bottom, so 
as to give all of you a chance to guess what they 
are. 

1. Behead what leads men to fight, and you 
leave the cause of much misery, sin, and death. 

2. Behead what young ladies are said to be fond 
of, and you leave a young lady. 

3. Behead what comes nearest the hand, and 
you leave what comes nearest the heart. 



306 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


4. Behead something sweet, and it leaves an 
address to the sweet. 

5. Behead part of a coach, and you leave part 
of yourself. Behead that, and you leave a fish. 

6. Behead a rogue, and you leave a musician. 

7. Behead an old-fashioned occupation, and you 
leave what prevents many a parting. 

8. Behead a part of ladies’ apparel, and you 
leave what is higher than the king. 

9. Behead what always comes hard, and you 
leave what makes things go easy. 

10. Behead a weapon, and you leave a fruit. 
Behead that, and you leave part of the body. 


1. Drum, rum. 

2. Cdass, lass. 

3. Glove, love. 

4. Molasses, O Lasses! 

5. Wheel, heel, eel. 


6. Sharper, harper. 

7. Spin, pin. 

8. Lace, ace. 

9. Toil, oil. 

10. Spear, pear, ear. 


Some times they make them in rhyme: 

Behead what is born in the fire, 

And lives but a moment or so, — 
For it can’t live long you know, — 
And you leave what all admire. 


BEHEADING WORDS 


307 


Where grass so green doth grow, 

And trees in many a row. 

Behead this last, and you leave in its place 
What once preserved the human race. 

Spark, park, ark. 

Behead a musical term so sweet, 

And you leave what runs without any feet. 
Behead again, and, sad to tell, 

You leave what is sick and never gets well. 

To what is left add the letter D, 

And you have a lawyer of high degree. 

Trill, rill, ill. “ LL D.” 

I’ve got something a good deal funnier to tell, but 
I’m going to write all about that in Lucy Maria’s 
letter. I guess she’ll be very glad when she gets 
that letter, for ’twill tell her how to do something 
very funny. I will send her the story of it, too, so 
she won’t have to make up anything herself. Don’t 
you think I had a pretty good time? I hope my 
sister is well, and hope you all are. Lucy Maria 
must read this letter. She could make those be¬ 
headings quicker’n lightning. I am well. 

From your affectionate grandson, 

William Henry. 


308 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


P. S. I’ve been to a lecture on good health. 
The man said there were two parts to the air, a 
good part and a poison part, and every time we 
breathe we keep in the good part, and breathe out 
the poison part. So if a room were sealed up, air¬ 
tight, a man living in it would soon die, for he would 
use up all the good part and leave the poison part. 
So we ought to always let fresh air in, that hasn’t 
been breathed. He says in a crowded room, if 
there is no fresh air coming in, we have to use over 
what other folks have breathed, whether they are 
sick or well. ^y 

What with our young friend’s frequent visits to 
the Two Betsys, his attendance at the dancing- 
school, and going to parties and to lectures, it would 
seem as though his time was not wholly taken up 
with his studies. Among William Henry’s letters 
to Lucy Maria I find the following one about the 
Dwarf, and with it, in Lucy Maria’s handwriting, 
I find a copy of the Narrative alluded to. 

William Henry to Lucy Maria. 

Dear Cousin: 

I guess you will want to know how this was done, 
that I’m going to write about, so I will tell you about 


THE DWARF 


309 


it, then you will know how to make one out of 
Tommy, but I guess a bigger boy would be better. 
It doesn’t make much difference about the size, if 
he can keep a sober face while somebody tells a 
story about him, and do the things he’s told to. I 
couldn’t guess how ’twas done till Bubby Short 
told me. Bubby Short was the dwarf. He was 
invited on purpose, because he is up to all kinds of 
fun, and can act dialogues, be an old man, an old 
woman, or anything you want him to. I will tell 
exactly how ’twas done, so you will know. And I 
will send you the Narrative to copy. But you can’t 
keep it very long. It was given to Bubby Short. 
The showman was Maud Grey’s cousin. He was 
dressed in a turban, with long robes, and he had 
black rings made round his eyes, and his face was 
tattooed with a lead-pencil. Course he made up 
the story and made the pictures to it, too. But he 
pretended he got them from the dwarf’s country, 
that was named “ Empskutia.” I thought maybe 
you’d like to read it, then if you made one you could 
think of something to say. ’Twas only meant for 
the little ones, he said, but we all liked to hear it. 


310 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


No matter if it was nonsense, we didn’t care. Now, 
I’ll begin. 

First, they had a table, with a long table-cloth 
on it that touched the floor. It must touch the floor, 
so as to hide the real feet of the one that’s going to 
be the dwarf. When Bubby Short was all ready he 
sat down to the table, same as if he’d been doing 
his examples or eating his dinner, — sat facing the 
company and waited for the curtain to rise. Course 
you have to have a curtain. The table-cloth cov¬ 
ered the lower part of him. His own hands and 

arms were turned into feet and legs for the dwarf. 

/ 

I’ll tell you how. The arms had little trousers on 
them, and the hands were put into nice little button- 
boots, so they looked like legs and feet. He was all 
stuffed out above his waist, and had on a stiff shirt 
bosom, and breastpin, and necktie, and false whis¬ 
kers, and a wig made of black curled hair, and a 
tasselled cap, with a gilt band round it. He crooked 
his arms at the elbows and laid them flat on the 
table, with the button-boots towards the curtain, 
so when the curtain went up it looked like a little 
dwarf sitting down, facing the company. Now I 



BUBBY SHORT PERFORMING 311 

must tell you where the dwarf’s arms and hands 
came from. For you know that Bubby Short’s arms 
and hands were made into legs and feet for the 
dwarf. Now to make arms, he had on a little coat, 
with the sleeves of it stuffed out to look like arms, 
and then a stuffed pair of white cotton gloves was 
sewed on to the sleeves, to look like hands, and these 
gloves were pinned together by the fingers in front 
of his waist so as to look like clasped hands. 

The showman asked him to do different things. 
Asked him to try to stand up. Then Bubby Short 
began to get up, very slow, as if ’twas tough work 
to do it, and let his arms straighten themselves 
down, and looked just as if there was a little short 
fellow standing on the table. I thought like enough 
you’d like to know how, so as to make one some 
time, out of Tommy or some bigger boy that knows 
how to whistle. The showman made his dwarf 
whistle a funny tune, and told us ’twas an air of his 
native country. Then made him step out the tune 
with his little button-boots, and it seemed just like 
a little dancing dwarf. The showman said that was 
the national dance of his country. I guess Uncle 


312 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

Jacob would like to see one. I guess his eyes would 
twinkle. 

When the curtain went up, you ought to’ve heard 
the folks roar! Some of them thought ’twas real. 
When the company asked him if he could move his 
arms, he shook his head, no. Then the showman 
said he could make him do it, by whispering a charm 
in his ear. So he went close up and whispered, and 
took out the pin that pinned the gloves, in a secret 
way, and then the arms dropped apart. All the 
way he could move his arms was by shaking his 
body, and then only a little. The showman said 
the fearful accident that stopped his growth lost 
him the use of his arms, though he could dance and 
whistle and make a bow f here he made him make a 
bow], and could scratch his ear with his boot [here 
he scratched his ear with the button-boot-toe ,] but 
his brain was strong as anybody’s. Then after¬ 
wards he told how much he knew. But you can read 
about it in the Narrative. He made him crook his 
knees sideways. He could do this easy enough, for 
’twas only the elbows bending outwards. Then he 
made him sit down again. I don’t believe any of 


AFTER LEAVING SCHOOL 313 

you ever saw anything so funny. The showman 
kept a very sober face all the time, and ’most made 
us believe every word of his story was true, and at 
the end he spoke very loud and acted it out, like 
an orator. 

Your affectionate cousin, 

William Henry. 

P. S. Will you please send back the picture of 
that creature we sent you once? We want to do 
something with it. I put in the Narrative * some of 
the things the audience did. 

The following letter must have been written 
some time after William Henry left the Crooked 
Pond School, and that Dorry had left also, to finish 
preparing himself for college in some higher semi¬ 
nary of learning. 

William Henrys Letter after leaving School. 
Dear Dorry: 

I didn’t know I was going to come away from 
school so soon after you did, but there was a new 


* The Narrative will be found at end of book, page 343. 


314 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


High School begun in our town about a mile and a 

half off, and my father thought I could learn there, 

/ 

and learn to farm it some too. But I don’t think 
much of farming it. Course ’tis fun to see things 
grow, after you’ve planted the seeds, and then 
watched ’em all the way up. My grandmother 
says my father likes his corn so well, that he pities 
it in a dry time, and when a gale blows it down, he 
pities it as much as if he’d been blown down him¬ 
self. Weeds are enough to make a feller mad, 
coming up fast as you kill ’em and sucking all the 
goodness out of the ground that don’t belong to 
them. Suppose they think ’tis as much theirs as 
anybody’s. 

I suppose you are studying away for college. I 
don’t know whether I wish I could go or not. I 
guess my head wouldn’t hold all ’twould have to 
be put into it before I went, and in all that four 
years, too! Now I want to know if a feller can re¬ 
member all that? I mean remember the beginning 
after all the other has been piled top of it? I don’t 
know what I shall be yet. For there is something 
bad about everything, Grandmother says, and I 


CHOOSING A CAREER 


315 


believe it. Now I don’t want to be a farmer, be¬ 
cause ’tis hard work and poor pay, — in these parts. 
I guess I should like to go to Kansas. But there are 
the Indians after your scalp, and fever and ague, 
and grasshoppers, and potato-bugs, and bean-bugs, 
and army-worms to eat up everything, and droughts 
to dry up everything, and floods to wash it away, 
and hurricanes to blow it down, and Uncle Jacob 
says if a man comes through all these alive, with a 
few grains of corn, the man that wants to buy ’em 
is a hundred miles off! But my father says, what 
is a man good for that don’t dare to go to sail with¬ 
out ’tis on a mill-pond! For smooth water can’t 
make a sailor. And if a man is scared of lions, how 
will he get through the woods. So I don’t know yet 
what I shall be. What should you, if you didn’t go 
to college? Go into a store? I tell you, Dorry, 
that if I was a dry-goods clerk, fenced in behind a 
counter, I do believe I should ache to jump over and 
put for somewhere and go to doing something. But 
my father says you can’t always tell a man by what 
his business is. For you’ve got to allow for head 
work. And because he sells shoe-strings, ’tis no 



316 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

sign he hasn’t got anything in his head but shoe¬ 
strings; and because a man drives nails, ’tis no sign 
he hasn’t got anything but nails in his head. “ Now, 
suppose,” says he, “ that a man sells dry goods all 
day, can’t he have some thoughts stowed away in 
his brains that he got out of books, or got up him¬ 
self? And when he’s walking along home and back, 
and evenings, can’t he out with ’em and be thinking 
’em over? ” I s’pose ’tisn’t time for me to have 
thoughts yet, s’pose they’ll be dropping along in a 
year or two, “ or three at the most,” as Lord Lovell 
said. One thing I mean to have, and that is a 
good house with all the fixings, and money to spend, 
and money to give away if I want to. So whatever 
I get started on, I mean to pitch in and shove up my 
sleeves, and go at it. Father says I must be think¬ 
ing the matter over, and not make my mind up right 
off. They say going to sea is a dog’s life. I should 
like to go long enough to see what Spain looks like, 
and China, and other places. Maybe I shall learn 
a trade. Now, for instance, a carpenter’s. That 
don’t seem much of a trade. Mostly pounding. 
But they say if you keep on, and are smart at it, 


HOMESICKNESS 


317 


why, you get to taking houses, and then you are not 
a carpenter any longer, but a “ builder,” and money 
comes in. 

I’m going to let her rest a spell. Though I’m so 
old I can’t help looking ahead some sometimes, to 
see where I’m coming out. 

Didn’t you feel homesick any when you were com¬ 
ing away from school? I did, — “ quite some,” as 
W. B. used to say. I went round to all the places, 
and paddled in the pond, and lay down on the grass 
to take one more drink out of the brook, and climbed 
up in the Elm, and ran up and down our stairs much 
as half a dozen times, without stopping, for I thought 
I never should again. 

I whittled a great sliver off the base-ball field 
fence to fetch away; didn’t we use to have good 
times there? Bubby Short gave me his pocket- 
book, and I gave him mine. They had about equal, 
inside. I went to bid Gapper good-by, day before 
I came off, and gave Rosy my little penknife. 

Then I went to bid the two Betsys good-by, and 
they wiped their eyes, and seemed about as if 
they’d been my grandmothers, and said I must come 



318 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


to eat supper with them that afternoon. So I went. 
Me all alone! Had a funny kind of a time. 
We sat at that round, three-legged stand, and I’ll 
tell you what we had. Bannock and butter, sau¬ 
sages, flapjacks, and scalloped cakes. All set 
on in saucers, for there wasn’t much room. They 
had about supper enough for forty. For they said 
they knew their appetites were nothing to judge a 
hungry boy by, and I must eat a good deal and not 
go by them, and kept handing things to me, and 
every once in a while they’d say, “ Now don’t be 
scared of it, there’s more in the buttery.” George! 
Dorry, I wish you could have seen that punkin- 
pie they had! ’Twas kept in a chair, a little ways 
off. I don’t see what ’twas baked in. The Other 
Betsy said that was just such a kind of a pie as 
her mother used to make. I out with my ruler, 
and asked if I might measure it. ’Twas about two 
feet across, and about four inches thick. She said 
she thought ’twas a good time to make one, when 
they were going to have company. When I took 
my piece, I had to hold my plate in my hand, for 
there wasn’t room on the stand. They wished 


AT THE TWO BETSYS’ 


319 


you’d been there, and so did I, and so would you, 
if you’d seen that pie. They didn’t take down their 
best dishes, that we had that other time, but called 
me one of the family and used the poor ones. I 
had to look out about lifting up the spoon-holder, 
because the bottom had been off, once, and mind 
which sugar-bowl handle I took hold of, for one 
side it was glued on. But everything held. I can’t 
bear tea, but they said ’twas very warming and 
resting, and I’d better. I guess they put in about 
six spoonfuls of sugar! They wanted to know 
all about you, and said you were a smart fellow. 

They wanted me to take some little thing out of 
the store, to remember them by. So I looked and 
looked to find something that didn’t cost very much, 
and at last I pitched upon a pocket-comb. The 
Other Betsy put on her glasses and scratched a B. 
on it, and said it could stand for the two of ’em. 
But I told her she better make two B.’s, for that 
would seem more like the Two Betsys, and she did. 
Lame Betsy said one B. ought to go lame, and the 
Other Betsy said she guessed they both would, for 
she had poor eyesight, and her hand shook, and noth- 


320 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


ing but a darning-needle to scratch with. If I do 
break the comb I shall keep the handle, for I think 
the Two Betsys are tip-top. I wish they could 
come and see my grandmother. Wouldn’t the three 
of ’em have a good time! 

Send a feller a letter once in a while, can’t ye? 
Say, now, you Dorry, don’t get too knowing to write 
to a feller? 

Your friend, 

William Henry. 

At this point the correspondence properly closes. 
As a faithful editor, I have endeavored to let it tell 
its own story, but must frankly acknowledge that at 
times, the pleasant memories recalled by these Let¬ 
ters have tempted me, too far, perhaps, beyond edi¬ 
torial bounds. This fault I freely confess, hoping 
to be as freely forgiven. Were it known how much 
I have left unsaid, while longing to say it, I should 
receive not only forgiveness but praise. 

In closing, I cannot do better than to add to the 
collection an extract from a letter written to Mr. 
Carver by the Principal of the Crooked Pond School. 

It seems that William Henry’s new teacher pro¬ 
posed his taking up Latin, and that Mr. Carver 
being somewhat undecided about the matter, wrote 
to the Principal of the Crooked Pond School, ask- 


THE MASTER’S LETTER 


321 


ing his opinion. The Principal’s reply, in as far as 
it discusses the Latin question, would scarcely be 
in order here. But the closing portion will, I know, 
be read with pleasure by all who have taken an in¬ 
terest in William Henry. He speaks of him thus: 

. . . Allow me, sir, in concluding, to congratu¬ 
late you on the many good qualities of your son. 
He is one of the boys that I feel sure of. We regret 
exceedingly his leaving us, and I assure you that he 
carries with him the best wishes of all here, — 
teachers, pupils, and townspeople. I shall watch 
his course with deep interest. A boy of his manly 
bearing, kind disposition, and high moral principle 
will surely win his way to all hearts, as he has done 
to ours. 

With regard to his studies, though not, perhaps, a 
remarkably brilliant scholar, he has, on the whole, 
done well. For the first few months, it is true, we 
• rather despaired of awakening an interest. He was 
too fond of play, too unwilling to come under our 
pretty strict discipline. Observing how heartily 
he entered into all games, and that he excelled in 
them, it occurred to us, that if the same ambition 




322 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


and pluck shown on the playground could be aroused 
in the schoolroom, our object would be gained. 
This, by various means, we have tried to accomplish, 
and I am happy to add, with good success. Your 
son, sir, is a boy to be proud of. 

Very truly yours, 


It so happened that I called at the Farm the very 
day on which this reply was received, and just 
as Grandmother had finished reading it. 

As I entered the room she looked up, and without 
speaking handed me the letter. Tears stood in her 
eyes, and I saw that something had touched her 
deeply. 

“ Any bad news? ” I asked. 

“ No,” she answered, in a tremulous voice. “ But 
to think of that schoolmaster’s finding out what was 
in that child! ” 




CHARADE. 


(See Page 195.) 

First Syllable. (Car). 

Chairs placed in two rows, to represent seats of 
cars. Passengers enter and take their seats. 
Placard stuck up, “ Beware of Pickpockets ” in 
capitals. 

First. Enter two schoolgirls, M. and A., with 
books strapped about, lunch-box, &c. They are 
laughing and chatting. M. gives A. a letter to read. 
A. smiles while reading it, M. watching her face, then 
both look over it together. Afterwards, study their 
lessons. All this must be going on while the other 
passengers are entering. 

Second. Business man and two clerks, one at 
a time. One takes out little account-book, another 
reads paper, another sits quietly, after putting 
ticket in his hat-band. 

Third. Fat woman, with old-fashioned carpet¬ 
bag, umbrella, and bundles tied up in handker¬ 
chiefs; seats herself with difficulty. 

323 


324 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


Fourth. A clergyman, all in black, very solemn, 
with white neckcloth and spectacles. 

Fifth. Yankee fellow from the country staring 
at all new-comers. 

Sixth. Dandy, with yellow gloves, slender cane, 
stunning necktie, watch-chain, and eyeglass comes 
in with a flourish, lolls back in his seat, using his 
eyeglass frequently. 

Seventh. Lady with infant (very large rag- 
baby, in cloak and sunbonnet) and nurse-girl. 
Baby, being fussy, has to be amused, trotted, 
changed from one to the other. Lady takes things 
from her pocket to please it, dancing them up and 
down before its face. 

Eighth. Plainly dressed, industrious woman, 
who knits. 

Ninth. Fashionable young lady, dressed in the 
extreme of fashion. She minces up the aisle, looks 
at the others, seats herself apart from them, first 
brushing the seat. Shakes the dust from her gar¬ 
ments, fans herself, takes out smelling-bottle, &c. 
(Shout is heard.) “ All aboard! ” 

Tenth. In a hurry, lady that’s been a-shopping, 


CHARADE 


325 


leading or pulling along her little boy or girl. She 
carries a waterproof on her arm, and has a shop¬ 
ping-bag and all sorts of paper parcels, besides a 
portfolio, a roller cart, a wooden horse on wheels, 
a drum, a toy-whip (and various other things). 
Dolls’ heads stick out of a paper. Lady drops a 
package. Dandy picks it up with polite bow. 
Drops another. Yankee picks it up, imitating 
Dandy’s polite bow. Gets seated at last, arranges 
her bonnet-strings, takes off the child’s hat, smooths 
its hair, &c. 

Steam-whistle heard. Every passenger now be¬ 
gins the jerking, up-and-down motion peculiar to 
the cars. This motion must be kept up by all, 
whatever they are doing, and by every one who 
enters. 

Enter Conductor with an immense badge on his 
hat, or coat. Calls out, “ Have your tickets ready! ” 
Then passes along the aisle, and calls out again, 
“ Tickets! ” The tickets must be large and ab¬ 
surd. Passengers take them from pocket-books, 
gloves, &c. Fat old woman fumbles long for hers 
in different bundles, finds it at last in a huge leather 


326 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

pocket-book. Conductor, after nipping the tickets, 
passes out. 

Enter boy with papers, “ Mornin’ papers! Herald, 
Journal, Traveller! ” (Business man buys one.) 
“Mornin’ papers! Herald, Journal, Traveller! y> 
(Clerk buys one.) Paper boy passes out. Con¬ 
ductor appears, calls out, “ Warburton! Warbur- 
ton! Passengers for Bantam change cars! ” 
(Noise heard of brakes, jerking motion ceases, 
school-girls leave, with those little hopping motions 
peculiar to school-girls. Yankee moves nearer 
fashionable miss. Two laborers enter. Steam- 
whistle heard, jerking motion resumed.) Candy 
boy enters. “ Jessup’s candy! All flavors! Five 
cents a stick! ” (Lady buys one for baby.) “Jes¬ 
sup’s candy! All flavors! Lemon, vanilla, pine¬ 
apple, strorbry! ” (Yankee buys one, offers half 
to fashionable miss. She declines. Crunches it 
himself.) Boy passes out. 

Enter boy with picture-papers, which he distrib¬ 
utes. Some examine them, others let them lie. 
(Dandy buys one.) Boy collects them and passes 
out. Enter a very little ragged boy, with fiddle, or 


CHARADE 


327 


accordion. After playing awhile, passes round his 
hat. Most of the passengers drop something in it. 
Exit boy. 

Enter Conductor. “ Tickets! ” Collects tick¬ 
ets. (Steam-whistle heard.) Passengers pick up 
their things. Curtain drops just as the last one goes 
out. (This scene might be ended by the passengers, 
at a given signal, pulling their seats together, pitch¬ 
ing over, and having the curtain fall on a smash-up.) 

Second Syllable. {Pet.) 

Lady in morning-dress and jaunty breakfast-cap, 
sadly leaning her head on her hand. On table near 
is toast, chocolate, &c. Enter Maggie with tray. 

Maggie. Ate a bit, mum, ate a bit. ’Twill 

r ' 

cheer ye up like! 

Lady {looking up). No, no, I cannot eat. Oh, 
the precious darling! It is now seventeen hours 
since I saw him last. Ah, he’s lost! 

Maggie. And did ye slape at arl, mum? 

Lady. Scarcely, Maggie. And in dreams I saw 
my darling, chased by rude boys, or at the bottom of 


328 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


deep waters, in filthy mud, eaten by fishes, or else 
mauled by dreadful cats. Take away the untasted 
meal. I cannot, cannot eat. 

Exit Maggie with breakfast things. Enter Mike 

with newspapers. 

Mike. Mornin’ paper, mum. 

Lady (catching it, and looking eagerly up and 
down its columns). Let me see if he is found. Oh, 
here! “ Found! A diamond pin on — ’ Pshaw, 
diamond pin! Here it is. “ Dog found! Black 
and tan — ” Faugh, black and tan! My beauty 
was pure white. But, Mike, where’s the notice 
of our darling’s being lost? 

Mike. Shure, an’ it’s to the side o’ the house I 
put it, mum, arl writ in illegant sizey litters, mum. 

Lady (in alarm). And didn’t you go to the 
printers at all? 

Mike. Shure an’ be n’t it better out in the brard 
daylight, mum, laning aginst th’ ’ouse convanient 
like, an’ aisy to see, mum? 

Lady. Oh, Mike, you’ve undone me! Quick! 
Pen, ink, and paper. Quick! I say. 

Exit Mike. 




CHARADE 


329 


Lady (sobs). It was but yesterday I held him 
in these arms! He licked my face, and took from 
my hand the bits of chicken, and sipped of my choco¬ 
late. His little black eyes looked up, oh, so brightly! 
to mine. His little tail, it wagged so happy! Oh, 
dear, lovely one, where are you now? 

Enter Mike, with placard on long stick, with these 
words in very large letters. 

Dog Lost! V Dollus! ReeWarD! Inn- 
Quire Withinn! LiveoRDeD!!! 

Reads it aloud, very slowly, pointing with finger. 

Mike. An’ it’s meeself larned the fine writin’, 
mum, in th’ ould counthry. 

Lady (excited). Pray take that dreadful thing 
away, and bring me pen and paper! 

Exit Mike, muttering. Knock heard at door. 

Lady. Come! 

Enter Market-man, in blue frock. 

Market-man. Good day, ma’am. Heard you’d 
lost a dog. 


330 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


Lady (eagerly, with hand extended). Yes, yes. 
Where is he? 

. Market-man. Was he a curly, shaggy dog? 
Lady. Yes! Oh, yes! Where did you find him? 
Market-man. Was your dog bright and playful? 
Lady (in an excited manner). Oh, very! very! 
Market-man. Answered to the name of Carlo? 
Lady. Yes! He did! he did! Oh, if I had him 
in these arms! 

Market-man (in surprise). Arms, ma’am? 
Arms? ’Tis a Newfoundland dog! He could 
carry you in his arms! 

Lady (dejected). O cruel, cruel disappointment! 
Market-man. What kind of a dog was yours? 
Lady. Oh, a dear little lapdog. His curls were 
white and soft as silk! 

Market-man (going). Good day, ma’am. If I 
see him, I’ll fetch him. 

Exit Market-man. Mike enters with writing ma¬ 
terials, and goes out again. Lady begins to write , 
repeating the words as she writes aloud. 

Lady. Lost, strayed, or stolen. A curly — 
(Tap at door.) Come! 


CHARADE 


331 


Enter stupid-looking Boy, in scanty jacket and 
trousers, and too large hat. 

Lady. Did you wish to see me? 

Boy {drawling). Yes, ma’am. 

Lady. About a dog? 

Boy. Yes, ma’am. 

Lady. Have you found one? 

Boy. Yes, ma’am. 

Lady. Is it a very small dog? 

Boy. Yes, ma’am. 

Lady. Sweet and playful? 

Boy. Yes, ma’am? 

Lady. Did you bring him with you? 

Boy. Yes, ma’am {pointing). Out there. 
Lady {excited). O, bring him to me. Quick! 
Oh, if it should be he! If it should! (Boy brings 
in small dog, yellow or black or spotted.) 

Lady {in disgust). Oh, not that horrid creature! 
Take him away! Take him away! 

Boy. Isn’t that your dog? 

Lady. No! no! Oh, can’t you take the horrid 
animal away? 

Boy {going). Yes, ma’am. 


332 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


Exit Boy with dog. Lady prepares to write. 

Lady. Stupid thing! Now I’ll write. (Re¬ 
peats.) 

Lost, strayed, or stolen. A curly, white — 

(Tap at the door.) Come! (Lays down pen.) 

Enter ragged Boy, with covered basket. 

Lady. Have you found a dog? 

Boy. No, I hain’t found no dog. 

Lady. Then what do you want? 

Boy. Father sells puppies. Father said if you’d 
lost your dog, you’d want to buy one of ’em. Said 
you could take your pick out o’ these ’ere five. 
(Opens basket for her to look in.) 

Lady (shuddering). Little wretches! Away 
with them! 

Boy. They’ll grow, Father said, high’s the table. 
Lady. Carry them off, can’t you? 

Boy. Father wants to know what you’ll take 
for your dog, running. Father said he’d give a dol¬ 
lar, an’ risk the ketchin on him. 

Lady. Dollar? No. Not if he were dead! 
Not if I knew he were drowned, and the fishes had 


CHARADE 


333 


eaten him, would I sell my darling pet for a paltry 
dollar! 

Boy {going). Good mornin’. Guess I’ll be go- 
in’. If I find your dog, I won’t {aside) let you know. 

Exit Boy, with bow and scrape. 

Lady {writes again , and repeats). Lost, 
strayed, or stolen. A cur — {Knock at the 
door.) Come! {Lays down pen.) 

Enter Mrs. Mulligan. 

Mrs. Mulligan. An’ is it yourself lost a dog, thin? 

Lady {eagerly). Yes. A small, white, curly, 
silky dog. Have you seen him? 

Mrs.Mulligan. Och, no. But ’twas barkin’ all 
night he was, behint th’ ’ouse. An’ the b’ys,— 
that’s me Pat an’ Tim, they drooned him, mum, bad 
luck to ’em, in the mornin’ arly. 

Lady. And did you see him? 

Mrs. Mulligan. No, shure. 

Lady. And where is he now? 

Mrs. Mulligan. Oh, it’s safe he is, Pat tould me, 
to the bottom o’ No-Bottom Pond, mum. 

Lady. And how do you know ’tis my dog? 




334 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

Mrs. Mulligan. Faith, an’ whose dog should it 
be, thin? 

Lady. Send your boys, and I’ll speak with them. 
Mrs. Mulligan {going). I’ll send them, mum. 
Mornin’, mum. 

Exit Mrs. Mulligan. Another tap at the door. 
Lady. Oh, this is not to be borne! Come! 

Enter Countrywoman with band-box , — not an 

old woman. 

Lady {earnestly). If it’s about a dog, tell me all 
you know at once! Is he living? 

Countrywoman. Yes’m, but he’s quite poorly. 
I think dogs show their sickness, same as human 
creturs do. Course they have their feelin’s. 

Lady. Do tell quick. 

Countrywoman. Just what I want, for I’m in a 
hurry myself. So I’ll jump right inter the thick 
on ’t. You see last night when my old man was 
ridin’ out o’ town in his cart, with some o’ his cab¬ 
bages left over, for garden sarse hadn’t been very 
brisk all day, and he was late a cornin’ out on account 



CHARADE 


335 

o’ the off ox bein’ some lame, and my old man ain’t 
apt to hurry his critters, for a marciful man is marci- 
ful to his beasts, you — 

Lady. But about the dog! 

Countrywoman. Wal, the old man was a ridin’ 
along, slow, you know, — I alwers tell him he’ll 
never set the great pond afire, — and a countin’ over 
his cabbage-heads and settlin’ the keg o’ molasses 
amongst ’em, and a little jug of — ( nods and winks 
and smiles ), — jest for a medicine, you know. For 
we never do, — I nor the old man, — never, ’xcept 
in case o’ sickness. 

Lady {impatiently). But what about the dog? 

Countrywoman. Wal, he was a ridin’ a long, and 
jest got to the outskirts o’ the town, when he hap¬ 
pened to see two boys a squabblin’ which should 
have a dog, — a little teenty white curly mite of a 
cretur — 

Lady. Yes! Go on! Go on! 

Countrywoman. And he asked ’em would they 
take fifty cents apiece and give it up. For he 
knew ’twould be rewarded in the newspapers. And 
they took the fifty. 






336 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

Lady {eagerly). And what did he do with him? 
Where is he now? 

Countrywoman. Why, I was goin’ to ride in with 
ihe old man this mornin’ to have my bunnet new 
done over, and I took the dog along. And we hap¬ 
pened to see that ’ere notice, and he and I together, 
we spelt it out! {Opening bandbox.) Now look 
in here! Snug as a bug, right in the crown o’ my 
bunnet. Seems poorly, but he’ll pick up. {Takes 
out a white lapdog.) * 

Lady {snatches him , and hugs and kisses him.) 
’Tis my Carlo. Oh, my precious, precious pet! 
Ah, he is too weak to move. I must feed him and 
put him to sleep. {Rises to go out.) 

Countrywoman. But the five dollars, marm! 

Lady. Oh, you must call again. I can’t think 
of any paltry five dollars, now. {Exit.) 

Countrywoman {calling out). I’ll wait, marm! 

Enter Mike. 

Mike. An’ what bisness are ye doin’ here? 

Countrywoman. Waiting for my pay. 


* A white lapdog may be easily made of wool and wire. 


CHARADE 


337 


Mike. Pay, is it? Och, she’ll niver pay the day. 
She’s owin’ me wages, an’ owin’ the cook, and Mrs. 
Flarty that scoors, and the millinery lady, an’ ’tis 
“ Carl agin,” she sez. “ Carl agin. Can’t ye carl 
agin? ” 

Countrywoman. Then I’ll get mine now. 

(Takes off shawl, and sits down. Takes out long 
blue stocking, and goes to knitting, first pinning 
on her knitting-sheath. I don’t budge, without the 
pay. 

Mike looks on admiringly. Curtain drops. 

Whole Word. {Carpet.) 

Clerk, standing behind counter, with shawls and 
various dry goods to sell. Also rolls or pieces 
of carpet, oil and other kinds. Various placards 
on the walls, — “ No credit.” “ Goods marked 
down! ” &c. Enter Old Woman. 

Old woman (speaking in rather high key). Do 
you keep stockings? 

Clerk (handing box of stockings). Oh, yes. 
Here are some, very good quality. 


338 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


Old Woman {examining them). Mighty thin, 
these be. 

Clerk. I assure you, they are warranted to wear. 
Old Woman. To wear out, I guess. 

Enter Young Married Couple. 

Clerk. Good morning. Can we sell you any¬ 
thing to-day? 

Wife {modestly). We wish to look at a few of 
your carpets. 

Clerk. This way, ma’am. 

Husband. Hem! {Clearing his throat.) We 
will look at something for parlors. 

Clerk. Here is a style very much admired. 
{Unrolls carpet.) Elegant pattern. We import 
all our goods, ma’am. That’s a firm piece of goods. 
You couldn’t do better. We warrant it to wear. 
All fast colors. 

Old Woman {coming near). A good rag carpet’ll 
wear out two o’ that. 

Wife {to Husband). I think it is a lovely pat¬ 
tern. Don’t you like it, Charley? 

Husband. Hem — well, I have seen prettier. 
But then, ’tis just as you say, dear. 



CHARADE 


339 


Wife. Oh, no, Charley. Tis just as you say. 
I want to please you, dear. 

Old Woman (to clerk). Have you got any crash 
towelling? 

Husband. What’s the price of this carpet? 
Clerk. Three dollars a yard. Here’s another 
style ( unrolls another) just brought in. ( Attends 
to Old Woman.) 

Husband (speaking to Wife). Perhaps we’d 
better look at the other articles you wanted. ( They 
go to another part of the store , examining articles.) 

Enter a spare , thin Woman, in plain dress and green 
veil. 

Clerk. Can we sell you anything to-day? 
Woman. I was thinking of buying a carpet. 
Clerk. Step this way, ma’am. ( Shows them.) 
We have all styles, ma’am. 

Woman. I want one that will last. ( Examining 
it.) 

Clerk (taking hold of it). Firm as iron, ma’am. 
We’ve sold five hundred pieces of that goods. If 
it don’t wear, we’ll agree to pay back the money. 
Woman. I want one that won’t show dirt. 


340 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


Clerk. Warranted not to show dirt, ma’am. 
We warrant all our goods. 

Woman. Can it be turned? 

Clerk. Perfectly well, ma’am. ’Twill turn as 
long as there’s a bit of it left. 

Woman. What do you ask? 

Clerk. Well, we have been selling that -piece 
of goods for three-fifty, but you may have it for 
three dollars. 

Woman. Couldn’t you take less? 

Clerk. Couldn’t take a cent less. Cost more by 
wholesale. 

Woman. I think I’ll look farther. {Going.) 

Clerk. Well, now seeing it’s the last piece, you 
may have it for two-fifty. 

Woman. I wasn’t expecting to give over two 
dollars a yard. {Going.) 

Clerk. Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do.. Say two 
and a quarter, and take it. 

Woman. I have decided not to go over two dol¬ 
lars. {Going.) 

Clerk {crossly). Well. You can have it for 
that. But we lose on it. In fact, we are selling 


CHARADE 


341 


now to keep the trade,'nothing else. Twenty-five 
yards? I’ll measure it directly. 

Old Woman. Have you got any cotton flannel? 

Enter Fashionable Lady. 

Clerk (all attention, bowing ). Good morning, 
madam. Can we sell you anything to-day? 

Fashionable Lady. I am looking at carpets this 
morning. Have you anything new? 

Clerk. This way, madam. We have several 
new lots, just imported. (Shows one.) 

Fashionable Lady. It must light up well, or it 
will never suit me. 

Clerk. Lights up beautifully, madam. 

Fashionable Lady. Is this real tapestry? 

Clerk. Oh, certainly, madam. We shouldn’t 
think of showing you any other. 

Fashionable Lady. What’s the price? 

Clerk. Well, this is a Persian pattern, and we 
can’t offer it for less than six dollars. Mrs. Topo- 
thetree bought one off the same piece. 

Fashionable Lady. ’Tis a lovely thing, and when 
a carpet suits me, the price is no objection. 


342 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

Old Woman (coming forward). Have you got 
any remnants? I wanted to get a strip to lay down 
afore the fire. {Speaking to Lady.) Goin’ to give 
six dollars a yard for that? Guess you better larn 
how to make a rag carpet. Fust, take your old 
coats and trousers, and strip ’em up inter narrer 
strips, and jine the strips together, and wind all 
that up in great balls. That’s your warp. Then 
take coarse yarn and color it all colors. That’s 
your fillin’. Then hire your carpet wove, and that 
carpet’ll last. 

Enter Policeman and a Gentleman. 

Gentleman {pointing to Fashionable Lady). 
That is the person. 

Policeman {placing his hand on her shoulder). 
This gentleman, madam, thinks you have — bor¬ 
rowed a quantity of his lace goods. 

Fashionable Lady {with air of astonishment ). 

I? Impossible! Impossible, sir! 

\ 

Gentleman. I am sure of it. 

Policeman. Will you have the goodness, madam, 
to come with us? 

Curtain drops, while all are gazing at each other in 

amazement . 



NARRATIVE. 


(See Page 313.) 

My dear young Friends : 

% 

Hyladdu Alizamrald, the unfortunate gentleman 
now before you, was born in the country of Emp- 
skutia, on the borders of the great unknown region 
of Phlezzogripotamia, which lies beyond the sources 
of the river Phlezzra. He was the only child of a 
nobleman, whose wealth was unbounded, and whose 
power was immense. The day of his birth was made 
a day of rejoicing throughout the city. Not only- 
were fountains of wine set flowing, that none might 
go athirst (for the Empskutians are driest when 
they’re happiest), but living fountains of milk also, 
that every child might, on that happy day, drink 
its fill of the pure infantine fluid. It is perhaps 
needless to remark that these last were cows, driven 
in from the surrounding plains. 

Hyladdu was an infant of great promise, and bade 
fair to become the pride of his native land, instead 
of being — of being — pardon my emotion. [ Show- 

Mi 



344 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


man puts handkerchief to his eyes. Hyladdu wipes 
away a tear with his boot-toe .] Yes, gentlemen 
and ladies [calmer], at his birth there seemed to be 
no reason why Hyladdu’s head should not rise as 
far towards the clouds as will yours, my smiling 
young friends before me. 

Briefly, he was not born a dwarf. Shall I relate 
how this sweet flower of promise was nipped in 
the bud? [The audience cry, “ Yes! yes! ” Hy¬ 
laddu takes his handkerchief in both boots and 
wipes his eyes.] 

Listen, then. When Hyladdu had reached the 
.age of eighty-one days — eighty-one being the third 
multiple of three — his parents, according to the 
custom of the country, summoned to the cradle of 
the young child a Thulsk. 

The Thulski are a tall, mysterious race of proph¬ 
ets, known only in Empskutia, who attain to an un¬ 
known age. Many of them cannot even remember 
their own boyhood. These prophets are rever¬ 
enced by all the people. As year after year is 
added to their life, they grow thin, dark, and shriv¬ 
elled, like mummies. The skin is dry and hangs 




NARRATIVE 


345 


loose about the bones. The hair is long and white, 
and every year adds to its length and its whiteness, 
while the eyes seem blacker and more piercing. 
They wear very high black caps, square, and carry in 
the hand a peculiar flower, a snow-white flower, hav¬ 
ing five petals, which grows in secret places, and 
which, even if found, no other person even dare 
to pluck, lest its peculiar smell should work a charm 
upon them. None but the Thulski themselves know 
when and where the Thulski die. If they have 
graves they are unknown graves, though it is a 
common belief in the country that the mysterious 
white-petalled flower blooms only in their burial- 
places. During life they live apart from all others, 
seldom speaking, even when mingled in the busy 
crowd. 

The order of the Thulski is kept up in this way. 
Their chief, clad in long dark robes, wanders silently 
the streets, and when, among the children at play, 
he discovers one who has some peculiar mark about 
him, — the nature of this mark is unknown, — he 
beckons, and the child follows him. Must follow 
him. For that silent beckoning joins him to their 



346 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


order. He is from that moment a Thulsk, and has 
no wish to escape. 

Now, although to be a Thulsk is to be certain of 
long life, yet no mother desires this fate for her 
child, but, on the contrary, children are warned 
against them, and have among themselves a secret 
sign, a rapid motion of the fingers, which means 
“ scatter! ” And if, when they are at play, the 
white-haired prophet is seen, though even at a great 
distance, this sign is rapidly made, and the little flock 
disappears so instantly, one would suppose the 
earth had swallowed them. You will see, before my 
melancholy story is finished, what all this has to do 
with Hyladdu’s misfortune. 

As I was saying, when he had attained the age of 
eighty-one days, — eighty-one being the third mul¬ 
tiple of three, — his parents, according to the cus¬ 
tom of the Empskutians, summoned one of these 

\ 

prophets to the cradle of their child, that his for¬ 
tunes might be foretold. 

The weird, shrivelled old Thulsk, with his flowing 
white hair, wrapped his dark robes about him, and 
sat silently at the low cradle, gazing upon the sleep- 




NARRATIVE 


347 


ing child. At length he arose, with a look of sorrow, 
and would have departed without uttering a single 
word. 

“ Speak! speak! ” cried the father. 

“ Ah, do not speak! ” murmured the mother; for 
she perceived that the prophet foresaw evil. “ Yet 
speak, yes, speak! ” she cried. “ Let us know the 
worst, that we may prepare ourselves.” 

The prophet then made a reply, of which these 
five words are a translation: 

“ Sorrow cometh sufficiently soon. Wait! ” 

But, on being very earnestly entreated, he dis¬ 
closed that before the beautiful infant attained his 
sixth year — six being the double of three — he 
would sustain injuries from a fall, by which either 
his mind or his body would be blighted. Which, it 
was not given him to say. He added that it grieved 
him to still further disclose that he himself would be 
in some way connected with the child’s misfortune, 
though in what way even his prophetic vision could 
not foresee. 

Now it may readily be supposed that the parents 
spared no pains to ward off from their child this 




348 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


unknown danger. The upper windows were im¬ 
mediately fastened down, fresh air being secured by 
means of hinges on each square of glass. As soon 
as he could walk sentinels were placed at every 
flight of stairs, and to keep him out of the 
cellar, a neighboring wine-merchant was invited 
to store his goods there, so that wine-butts 
took up every inch of room, from floor to ceiling. 
Ladders and movable steps he was not allowed the 
sight of, and as it seems as natural for boys to climb 
trees as to breathe the air around them, every tree in 
the grounds was protected by sharp iron teeth. 

The longing which every boy has to climb is called 
the climbing instinct. In Hyladdu the climbing 
instinct was nipped in the bud, — smothered, 
crushed, kept under. He was forbidden to swing 
on gates, taught to avoid fence-posts, lamp-posts, 
and flag-staffs, and to look upon hills as summits of 
danger. Of shinning, he knew but the name. And 
that the very idea of climbing might be kept from 
his mind, all climbing plants were rooted out from 
the grounds; not even a morning-glory was allowed 
to run up a string! By these means the anxious 



NARRATIVE 


349 


parents hoped to prevent what the Thulsk had fore- 
told, from coming to pass. “ For/’ said they, “ if 
he never goes up, he can never fall down.” But 
mark now how all these precautions were the very 
means of making the prophecy prove true. For, 
had he only been taught to climb, and had been ac¬ 
customed to high places, that sad accident might 
not have taken place and the blighted individual 
before you might now have been one of the flowers 
of his country! [Emotion.] Pardon me, friends. 
Tears come unbidden. \ Showman holds handker¬ 
chief to his eyes. Dwarf ditto, with boots. ] 

Imagine now the dear child, grown a beautiful boy 
of five summers, — a boy of beaming blue eyes, and 
a rosy cheek! of flaxen curls and a graceful motion! 
The idol of his parents, the joy of his friends! Sweet 
in disposition, of tender feelings, quick to learn, 
truthful, affectionate, gentle in his manners, win¬ 
ning in his ways, no wonder that he was so well be¬ 
loved ! 

It was only one short week before his sixth birth¬ 
day, and his friends were trembling with joy, that 
the fatal time had so nearly passed, when the calam- 



350 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

ity which had so long hung over him like a cloud 
descended upon him like a thunderbolt! In other 
words, he lacked but a week of six, and all were re¬ 
joicing that the danger was nearly passed, when the 
event happened. 

Hyladdu, being, like most boys, of a playful turn 
of mind, was sometimes permitted to join in the 
games of other children, in front of his father’s 
mansion, attended always by a faithful servant. 
On this particular day they were amusing themselves 
by playing with some silver-coated marbles, a box 
of which had been presented to Hyladdu by his 
grandmother, who was one of the court ladies. 

A very pretty group they were. The children 
of that country, like their fathers, were dressed in 
long white robes, with bright sashes. On their 
heads they wore caps of blue or scarlet, which turned 
up with points before, behind, and at each side, 
On each point a little silver bell was hung, that the 
servants might have less difficulty in following them 
about. Their shoes were pointed at the toes. 

Among those silver marbles was an “alley ” of 
great beauty, glistening with rubies, and inlaid with 


NARRATIVE 


351 


pearl. This alley never was played for in earnest. 
[Here the dwarf beckons to the showman, and whis¬ 
pers in his ear.] He informs me that the laws for¬ 
bade playing in earnest. I will now finish as rapidly 
as possible. 

In the course of the game, this precious “ alley ” 
rolled a long distance, until it came to a brick in 
the pavement, which was set slanting, or had become 
so by a sinking of the ground underneath. This 
brick gave the “ alley ” a turn sideways to the left, 
and it rolled at last through a crack in the garden 
fence, and hid itself in the grass. The servant, in 
great haste, darted through the gate in search of it. 

Meanwhile, slowly down the street, though at a 
distance, a Thulsk was approaching. It was the 
same who had nearly six years before sat by Hy- 
laddu’s cradle. He walked silently on, his eyes 
cast down, his hands clasped, holding between them 
the five-petalled flower. One of the boys, perceiv¬ 
ing, made the sign of warning. Instantly they scat¬ 
tered, like a flock of pigeons, leaving their little 
silver-belled caps on the ground. Hyladdu, seeing 
the cellar open, would have hidden himself there, 


352 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

but no space was left between the wine-butts. A 
much larger boy seized his hand and pulled him 
into a strange house, and then, in his fright, dragged 
him through long passage-ways, and up seven flights 
of stairs; for the Empskutians build their houses 
to an immense height. Here they sat down to 
breathe awhile, and Hyladdu begged the boys to 
go for the faithful servant, that he might lead him 
home. 

Now no sooner was the boy gone than Hyladdu 
began to look about him, and presently he discovered 
a slender staircase going still higher. Having 
climbed seven flights with help, he felt no fear in 
attempting the eighth alone. This slender stair¬ 
case conducted him to the roof of the building. 
[ Emotion and handkerchief .] Excuse my emotion. 
But when I think what might have happened, if 
something else had not happened to prevent, when 
T think that he might have fallen from that immense 
height, to be dashed in pieces beneath, I — I — 
But I will let my story take its course. 

And now let me tell you that the people of Emp- 
skutia were very fond of the beautiful. The streets 



NARRATIVE 


353 


were adorned with ornamental trees, and over the 
roofs of the houses were trained flowering vines, 
which ran to the highest peak of cupola or chim¬ 
ney, and, blooming sweetly there, filled the whole 
air with fragrance. It was the custom of the people 
to place stout iron hooks along the eaves of their 
dwellings, from which were suspended immense 
flower-pots of various beautiful designs. In these 
pots the flowering vines took root and from thence 
not only climbed the roof, but trailed gracefully 
down, thus giving the city a festive appearance, like 
a never-ending gala-day. 

When Hyladdu looked out from the top of that 
last eighth flight, the long-smothered instinct of 
climbing burst out like a hidden fire. It would not 
be restrained. Ah, now will be seen the folly of 
crushing that instinct. Had he only have been ac¬ 
customed to dizzy heights, made familiar with dan¬ 
ger, how different might have been his fate! 
[Emotion.] 

The instinct of climbing, as I said, was now strong 
upon him! No sooner did he perceive that there 
was still a height to gain than he resolved to gain 


354 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


that height. Nothing less would satisfy him than 
sitting astride the ridgepole, where a pair of bright- 
feathered birds had built their nest, and were then 
feeding their young. He ventured out, made his 
way cautiously up, holding on by the vines. Ah, 
could his parents have seen him then! 

He arrived at the top, and there, seated on that 
lofty pinnacle, surrounded by beautiul flowers, he 
gazed on the scene below, and enjoyed a new happi¬ 
ness. For the first time in his life he looked down 
from a height! for the first time in his life he gazed 
abroad over a wide extended country! 

Such pleasure he had never known, and the faith¬ 
ful servant, anxiously searching, might have found 
him there, still enjoying it, but for a pretty little 
bluebird, that flew suddenly down and startled him, 
while he was gazing at some object far away. This 
little bird came flying through the air, and alighted 
for an instant on the child’s head, thinking perhaps 
to make its nest in the soft curls, or it might have 
thought his rosy lips were cherries. The sudden¬ 
ness with which it came startled Hyladdu. He 
trembled, he lost his hold, slipped, then caught by a 


NARRATIVE 


355 


vine, it gave way, he slipped again, but, having no 
skill in climbing, slipped lower and lower, and would 
have fallen from the roof and been dashed in pieces, 
but for that custom which was mentioned just now, 
of suspending large flower-pots from the eaves. It 
happened that his course lay directly towards one 
of these iron hooks. He dropped, therefore, into 
the immense flower-pot beneath, where he lay as 
secure as a babe in its cradle! 

From this frightful position he was at length 
rescued by one of the hook-and-ladder company of 
that city, and placed in his mother’s arms. His 
own arms were nearly paralyzed by his frantic ef¬ 
forts to cling to some support, so that ever after¬ 
wards he could move them but very slightly, as you 
perceive. [ Divarj moves his arms slightly , by shak¬ 
ing his body.] And though the child’s life was spared, 
yet the terrible fright had the effect of stopping his 
growth! Yes, my young friends, Hyladdu never 
grew more, except in wisdom! The innocent cause 
of all this, the poor sorrowing grandmother, died of 
remorse! 

And now my story becomes a more pleasing one 


356 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


to tell. Although the child’s body remained dwarfed 
in size, yet his heart grew in goodness, and his mind 
grew in knowledge, and he was beloved and re¬ 
spected by all. Debarred earthly mountains, he 
mounted the heights of learning. The climbing 
instinct, which his body could not satisfy, was de¬ 
veloped in his mind. He craved books, he craved 
whole libraries. Teacher after teacher came, all 
exhausting upon him their treasures of knowledge. 
Music and drawing, studied scientifically, were his 
amusements. He mastered astronomy, miner¬ 
alogy, algebra, conchology, trigonometry, physi¬ 
ology, engineering, metaphysics, technology, ge¬ 
ology, phrenology, also foreign languages unnum¬ 
bered, with all the literature belonging to each. 
[Sensation in the audience .] And when at last the 
storehouses of wisdom seemed exhausted, a report 
reached him of a great country beyond the seas, 
called the United States of America, in whose ex¬ 
cellent schools there remains something yet to 
learn! [Applause from the audience.] 

He studied the written language of that country, 
read its history, and resolved to seek its shores. 


NARRATIVE 


357 


For he longed to behold the land of the Revolution¬ 
ary War; to read the Declaration of Independence, 
and so stand upon the grave of Old John Brown! 

[Applause.] 

He had heard of Bunker Hill. Travellers said 
that upon whomsoever rested the shadow of its 
monument, that person possessed forever after the 
unflinching bravery of those who bled and perished 
there! [Cheers.] He had heard of Plymouth Rock 
[Cheers], and been told that his foot once planted 
firmly upon it, he would feel springing up within 
him all the heroisms, the self-sacrifice, and the ever¬ 
lasting perseverance of the glorious Pilgrim Fathers! 

[Prolonged cheering.] 

I have now, my young friends, told you, very 
briefly, the history of this remarkable character. 
His age is thirty-four years. He is of a cheerful 
disposition, having long ago resolved to look his 
misfortune steadily in the face and make the best 
of it. In books, where are treasures stored up by 
the scholars of all past time, he finds a never-end¬ 
ing pleasure. Though dwarfed in stature, he is re- 


358 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


solved to make a man of himself, and will fight it out 
on that line if it takes all summer. For he early 
adopted for his motto, these beautiful lines of Dr. 
Watts: 

u Were I so tall as to reach the pole, 

Or grasp the ocean in iny span, 

I should be measured by my soul. 

The mind’s the standard of the man.” 

[Applause. 

('Curtain jails.) 

I once heard the above narrative repeated by Joe 
in a truly theatrical manner. On the same occasion 
I also saw the picture of the “ creature ” to which 
William Henry refers in his postscript to the Dwarf 
Letter. 

Uncle Jacob hailed me one day as I was coming 
from my office, and after driving close to the curb¬ 
stone, informed me that Cousin Joe and his accor¬ 
dion had arrived, both in good health and spirits. 
Also, that Billy’s school had met with a very sudden 
vacation, caused either by flues, or furnaces, or 
both, having something the matter with them, and 
the young rascal would be at home that evening, and 
I must come without fail. “ Of course you know,” 
said he, “ ’tis a pretty hard thing for Billy having 
to give up his studies, so he’s coming home to his 
friends. Nothing like being among friends when 
you’re in trouble? ” 


AN EVENING AT THE FARM 


359 


Now this was by no means a remarkable event. 
Only a boy coming home for a few days to see his 
folks. Still, an occasion which worked Grand¬ 
mother up to the pitch of putting on her best cap 
should not be passed over in silence. 

I went out to the Farm that evening, and on arriv¬ 
ing found Cousin Joe, and the accordion, and Aunt 
Phebe’s family, with a few relatives whom I had 
never met before, all assembled at Grandmother’s. 
They had made up a fire in the “ Franklin fireplace.” 
This “ Franklin fireplace ” was a sort of iron frame¬ 
work, projecting from the chimney into the room. 
The top was flat, with brass balls on the corners. It 
had iron sides, which “ flared out,” and a rounded 
iron hearth of its own, about an inch above the brick 
hearth, and shining brass andirons. 

No one could wish for a brighter room, I thought, 
for there was the light from the fire, the light from 
the “ lights,” and the light from all those smiling 
faces! An inviting supper-table was set out, cov¬ 
ered dishes were “ keeping warm ” on the hearth 
and “ frame,” and everything was ready and waiting 
for William Henry. Mr. Carver had gone to the 
station, and they were expected back every mo¬ 
ment. 

Georgiana was very busy over a skein of blue sew¬ 
ing-silk. She informed me that that was the first 
whole skein of sewing-silk she ever had in all her 
life, and that it came from a bundle of all colors, 
which Cousin Joe gave to Hannah Jane. It brought 


360 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


trouble with it, as it is said all earthly possessions do, 
and snarled at all her attempts to coax it on to a 
spool. Tommy, sober as a judge, was holding it for 
her to wind. He sat in a little chair, with his legs 
crossed. His mother said he was very particular to 
cross his legs, so as to seem more like a man. 

Lucy Maria had just persuaded Grandmother to 
put on her best, double-stringed, white-ribboned 
cap, in honor of William Henry. It was the very 
one he brought her so long ago, but was still as good 
as new, having very seldom seen the light of day, 
or of evening, since it first came home in the band- 
box. She had also been coaxed into her second- 
best dress, and then into the rocking-chair. Lucy 
Maria tied her cap under the chin, with the narrow 
strings, and smoothed down the wide ones. 

“ You have no idea, Grandmother,” said she. 
“ You haven’t the faintest idea how well you 
look! ” 

“ ’Tis too dressy for me,” said Grandmother. 
“ It don’t feel natural on my head.” 

“ Now I should think,” said Uncle Jacob, “ that 
a cap would feel more natural on anybody’s head 
than anywhere else! ” 

“It looks natural,” said Lucy Maria, “ I’m sure 
it does. Looks as if it grew there! ” 

“And only think how ’twill please Billy! ” said 
Aunt Phebe. 

The “ Map of the United States ” had been 
brought out of the front room, and placed over the 


\ 


» 


THAT CREATURE AGAIN 


361 


mantelpiece. And Lucy Maria, for fun, she said, 
and to pay a delicate compliment to the artist, had 
fastened a few sprays of upland cranberry around 
it. And, also, for fun, she pinned up near it a little 
picture, which I had quite a laugh over, and which, 
she said, was the renowned “ Megotharium,” in the 
act of feeding drawn by the famous artist, William 
Henry, assisted by his brother artist, Dorry. The 



picture, she added, was not an original , but merely 
a copy done by a female. A photograph of these 
two artists, sitting side by side, was exhibited, under¬ 
neath the picture. 

Cousin Joe said that creature beat all his going to 
sea. This young sailor, by the way, must have 
made a jolly shipmate. He was full of his jokes 
and his tricks. Tried to twirl Tommy round, by 
rubbing him between his two hands, as one does a 
top, telling him that was the way the Hottentots 
did to take the mischief out of boys! 

Aunt Phebe said she thought if the Hottentots 




















362 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

knew any ways of taking the mischief out of boys, 
and were out of work, they might find employment 
in this country. 

Tommy begged to play “ one tune,” and was al¬ 
lowed to. Cousin Joe declared that “ that accor¬ 
dion was played every wave of the way across the 
Atlantic,” either by himself or by one of the sailors, 
and that sometimes the mermaids sang to its music! 
Asked Tommy if he would like to hear the tune the 
mermaids sang. Tommy said he should rather 
wait till after supper. This was the way in which, 
company being present, the young chap let it be 
known that he was hungry. 

Grandmother wondered, then, why they didn’t 
come, and went to look out of the window, putting 
up both hands, to keep the light of the room from 
her eyes; then opened the outside door, to listen for 
the whistle; then went to look at the kitchen clock; 
then came back, saying it was a good deal past the 
time, and what could be the matter? 

She little knew who was behind, following her on 
tiptoe into the room. William Henry himself! He 
was creeping in at the sink-room door, just as she 
turned to come back from looking at the clock, and 
followed softly behind. She didn’t notice how very 
smiling we all looked. Billy shook his finger at us, 
to hush us. 

“ I hope there hasn’t anything happened to the 
cars.” said she. 

“ I hope so, too! ” shouted Billy. And, by a 


BILLY’S HOME-COMING 


363 


miraculous jump, he planted himself, square foot, 
in front of his grandmother, who, of course, walked 
straight into his arms! 

Then everybody shouted, and clapped, and shook 
hands, and kissed. The cap got twisted about, and 
as if there were not confusion enough, Cousin Joe 
began to caper about, and to play on his accordion 
tunes that were never played before! 

Such a splendid fellow as Billy was! Such a 
hearty, laughing, breezy fellow, with his thick head 
of hair, “ not so red as it was,” and his honest, good- 
natured face! I didn’t wonder they were all so glad 
to see him. 

“ Welcome home, shipmate! ” shouted Cousin 
Joe. “ Welcome home! How long’ll you be in 
port?” And worked away at Billy’s hand as if he’d 
been pumping out ship. 

“ ’Most a week,” said Billy. “ Mind my fore¬ 
finger.” 

“ Don’t take long to stay at home a week,” said 
Cousin Joe, tossing up his accordion. 

“ That’s so,” said Uncle Jacob. “ Come, let’s 
be doing something! ” 

“ That means let’s be eating something,” said 
Aunt Phebe. “ Come, girls, put everything on the 
table! Billy, how tall and spruce you do look! 
Poor Grandmother, she’s losing her little Billy! ” 

“ But what’s her loss is his gain! ” said Uncle 
Jacob. “ I speak to sit next to the frosted cake. 
Where’s Tommy? ” 


364 THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 

Tommy came in, tugging Billy’s carpet-bag, which 
he found in the kitchen, hoping, no doubt, there were 
goodies inside for him. 

We had a delightful “ supper time,” Grand¬ 
mother, of course, piling Billy’s plate with every¬ 
thing good. 

“ I see,” said Mr. Carver, “ that whatever boys 
eat at home, grandmothers expect will agree with 
them! ” 

The happy “ young rascal ” meanwhile bore the 
separation from his studies with amazing fortitude! 
Told no end of funny stories about the boys, and 
about parties, and about the Two Betsys. And 
twice, during supper, he exclaimed, “ I do hope 
nothing has happened to those cars. They were 
such good cars! ” 

My visits to the farm were always delightful, but 
during that supper-time, and during that evening, 
I grudged every moment as it flew away. 

Uncle Jacob was in high glee, and insisted on 
being taught “ the graces,” and on having his wife 
taught “ the graces.” Then Lucy Maria “ set her 
foot down ” that every one should stand in the row, 
and Billy should be Mr. Tornero. And, being a 
girl of resolution, she coaxed every one into line, 
except Grandmother, who said her rheumatism 
should do her some service then, if never before. 

“ The graces ” were then taught, and learned, 
amid shouts of laughter, Cousin Joe playing for us, 
and I’ll venture to say that had Mr. Tornero been 


COUSIN JOE AS SHOWMAN 365 

present, he would have been astonished at our steps, 
and also at the music! 

Afterwards we had the dwarf shown off, Cousin 
Joe being the showman. He declared after looking 
over the “ Narrative,” that Empskutia was a place 
well known to him, and that he had often sailed up 
the “ river Phlezzra,” to trade with the natives. 
Lucy Maria dressed him in a large-figured red and 
green bedspread, pinned on to look like a loose 
robe, with flowing sleeves, and girdled about the 
waist with cords and tassels taken from Aunt Phebe’s 
parlor curtains. He wore an immense lace collar, 
and a turban made of a white muslin handkerchief 
(one that was Grandmother’s mother’s) and be¬ 
sprinkled with artificial flowers. His face was tat¬ 
tooed with a lead-pencil, and dark circles drawn 
around his eyes. He held in his hand a slender 
rod, or wand. 

The dwarf was a young cousin of William Henry’s 
(not Tommy), and he did hi§ part well, whistling, 
bowing, dancing, sneezing, rising, sitting, with a 
perfectly sober face. 

The showman then read the “ Narrative,” adding 
thereto such ridiculous incidents, and such comical 
remarks, that the audience were convulsed with 
laughter, and the face of the dwarf twitched alarm¬ 
ingly. These twitchings, he (the showman) said, 
were not unusual, and were the effects of the sad oc¬ 
currence then being narrated. The closing por¬ 
tions of the story were declaimed in a powerful 


366 


THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS 


voice. He “ acted out ” the “ pole ” and the 
“ span/’ and at the third line, “ I must be measured 
by my soul,” laid his hand upon his heart in the most 
impressive manner, and remained in that position 
till the curtain fell. 

After this “ John Brown ” was sung, and William 
Henry was permitted to roar out that “ Glory Halle¬ 
lujah ” as loudly as he pleased. 


The End 












V 





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